PAX 

(PEACE) 


BRENTANO'S  HISPANO-AMERICAN  SERIES 

ISAAC  GOLDBERG,  PH.D.,  EDITOR 


PAX 

(PEACE) 

BY 

LORENZO  MARROQUIN 

TRANSLATED  BY 

ISAAC  GOLDBERG,  PH.D. 

AND 

W.  V.  SCHIERBRAND,  PH.D. 


NEW  YORK 

BRENTANO'S 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1920,  by 
BRENTANO'S 

^ 

All  rights  reserved 


INTRODUCTION 

The  name  of  the  much-wracked  republic  of  Colombia  is  in- 
dissolubly  linked  with  that  of  the  most  popular  novel  that  has 
thus  far  come  out  of  Spanish  America, —  the  tender,  idyllic 
romance  entitled  Maria,  by  Jorge  Isaacs  (1837—1875).* 
The  nationalistic  strain  in  Isaacs  was  carried  forward  by  later 
novelists,  few  of  whom  have  been  found  worthy  of  serious  con- 
sideration by  lovers  of  belles  lettres.  Among  these  the  out- 
standing exception  is  ^ren^_^IaTrociuin  (died  1918),  whose 
Pax  created  a  furore  at  the~"time  of  its  appearance.  For  this 
tKere  were,  of  course,  non-literary  reasons.  [The  caustic  satire 
of  the  book,  its  spirited  caricatures  of  loathsome  national  types, 
imparted  to  ft  all  the  political  zest  of  an  old  roman  a  clef, 
and  more  than  one  public  figure  believed  that  he  had  been 
held  up  to  scorn  in  the  pages  of  this  colorful,  moving  novel 
of  love,  intrigue,  religion,  politics  and  revolution.  Yet  this  is 
but  a  superficial  aspect  of  the  book,  which  as  a  whole  should 
possess  for  us  Americans  of  the  North  the  attraction  exercised 
by  a  work  that  is  written  in  hot  sincerity, Vportraying  the  evils 
that  consume  an  author's  beloved  country/  This,  perhaps,  is 
the  prime  impulse  in  Pax;  it  was  born  of  a  high  religious  faith 
in  the  service  of  an  ardent  patriotism.  The  author  is  thor- 
oughly imbued  with  his  milieu;  he  knows  the  people  and  their 
customs,  the  landscape  and  its  secrets,  the  vanishing  nobility 
and  their  foundering  ideals.  If  he  has  not  caught  the  ideals 
of  the  rising  lower  classes,  that  is  because  his  novel  is,  in  a 
sense,  the  defiant  swan-song  of  a  departing  era.  Even  to  one 
whose  world-philosophy  looks  in  a  different  direction,  Marro- 

*  Isaacs'  hereditary  influences  and  early  environment  were  of  a  cosmo- 
politan nature.  His  father  was  an  English  Jew,  his  mother  a  Spaniard, 
and  he  was  Colombian  by  birth.  He  early  achieved  note  through  his 
poems,  a  volume  of  which  was  published  in  1865.  Maria  (1867)  estab- 
lished his  fame.  His  poetry,  like  his  prose,  reveals  a  certain  melancholy 
that  has  been  referred  to  the  Hebraic  strain  in  him;  he  is  likewise  gifted 
with  delicate  descriptive  powers  and  his  muse  may  be  realistic  as  well  as 
romantic.  Besides  his  poetry  and  his  famous  novel  he  left  a  prose  work 
entitled  La  Revolution  radical  en  Antioquia. 

v 


43606C 


vl  INTRODUCTION 

quin,  through  his  sincerity,  impresses  with  a  sense  of  the  re- 
ligious idealism  and  the  proud-gestured  self-abnegation  of  his 
class. 

^,  "  A  novel  of  Latin  American  manners  "  is  the  sub-title  of 
the  book,  and  truly,  if  we  do  not  permit  that  characterization  a 
too  great  flexibility,  the  work  teems  with  scenes  of  the  people  at 
their  various  pursuits  and  pleasures.  We  view  them  in  their 
homes,  at  the  opera,  at  the  race-track,  in  their  offices,  at  their 
interminable  banquets;  we  are  present  at  their  weddings,  at 
their  burials;  we  follow  them  to  church,  visit  their  literary  co- 
teries, and  go  with  them  where  not  else  until  the  horrors  of  civil 
war  burst  forth. 

And  it  is  here  that  the  book  strikes  a  note  that  is  as  timely 
to-day  as  when  it  was  written,  and  applicable  to  an  entire  world 
rather  than  a  single  nation.  '  Patriot  though  he  be,  Marroquin 
sees  nothing  beautiful  in  war.  Indeed,  so  clearly  does  he  be- 
hold and  portray  the  horrors  of  human  conflict  jthat  from  this 
standpoint  —  and  I  say  it  without  the  slightest  consciousness 
of  exaggeration  —  it  merits  comparison  with  the  famous  war  de- 
scriptions of  The  Four  Horsemen  of  the  Apocalypse.  Marro- 
quin possesses  a  penetrating  power  of  description,  whether  he 
treats  of  the  rich  tropical  landscape  or  the  foolish  humans  that 
blot  the  lavish  pictures  of  nature  with  their  own  violent,  yet  so 
often  needless,  strife.  Consider,  in  this  connection,  the  power- 
ful episode  in  the  chapter  "  Alligators  and  Vultures  ";  as  a  bit 
of  sheer,  straightforward  narrative-description  and  its  effect 
upon  the  reader,  it  is  an  admirable  piece  of  work. 

The  book  is  pervaded  by  a  certain  symbolism  that  evidently 
pleasured  the  author.     We  meet  with  it  at  once  in  the  sketches 
wherein  Roberto  has  posed  as  the  lone,  dying  soldier  —  thus 
encountering  a  forecast  of  his  heroic  death.     We  come  upon  it 
often  in  the  frequent  mention  of  the  Castilian  roses, —  and  it  is 
to  these  roses  that  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  effective  chap- 
ters of  the  novel  is  dedicated.     The  entire  tale  is  a  vast  sym-1 
bol  of  a  war-sick  world  crying  "Peace,  Peace!  "  through  the? 
mute  mouths  of  sacrificed  youth.     And  the  author  does  not  lackj 

I     a  certain  sense  of  humor  that  helps,  now  and  again,  to  relievej 

1  the  somber  details  of  a  war-swept  landscape. 

ax  is  not  so  strong  in  characterization  as  in  description. 
Either  the  author  inclines  to  caricature   (cf.   such  figures  as" 


INTRODUCTION  vii 

Karlonoff,  Montellano,  the  poet  Mata,  the  inventor  Penanegra, 
the  revolutionist  Landaburo)  or  to  idealization  (Dr.  Miranda, 
Sister  San  Logorio,  Roberto,  Alejandro).  Yet  more  than  one 
personage  is  drawn  in  living  colors,  and  the  general  impression 
is  one  of  movement,  animation,  realism. 

The  book's  literary  satire,  though  it  may  be  enjoyed  in  the 
spirit  of  caricature,  is  not  to  be  taken  too  seriously.  The 
effervescence  of  certain  distinctly  minor  symbolists  and  "  mod- 
ernists "  in  Spanish  American  poetry  (as  in  the  poetry  of  the 
rest  of  the  world)  is  its  own  best  parody.  The  long  travesty  in 
Chapter  VIII,  particularly  toward  the  end,  shows  the  poem  to 
be  a  take-off  on  the  famous  third  Nocturne  of  Jose  Ansuncion 
Silva*  (1865-1896)  beginning 

Una  noche, 
Una,  noche  todo  llena  de  murmullos,  de  perfumes,  y  de  musicas  de  alas; 

Una  noche, 
En   que   ardian   en   la   sombra   nupcial  y   humeda   las  luciernagas  fan- 

tasticas.  .  .  . 

(On  one  night,  on  one  night  permeated  with  murmurs,  perfumes 
and  the  music  of  wings;  on  a  night  in  which  the  fantastic  glow-worms 
gleamed  in  the  moist  and  nuptial  shadows.  .  .  .) 

If  the  figure  of  Mata  was  meant  as  a  caricature  of  Silva, 
however,  it  does  the  great  Colombian  poet  injustice.  Silva  was 
undoubtedly  a  neurotic  Baudelairian  figure  but  he  was  just 
as  undoubtedly  a  great  poet, —  one  of  the  chief  singers  of  mod- 
ern Spanish  America. 

It  is  of  passing  interest  that,  though  Marroquin  was  a  corre- 
sponding member  of  the  Royal  Spanish  Academy,  his  novel 
abounds  in  careless  and  incorrect  passages;  in  fact,  an  enter- 
prising purist  (for  is  not  Colombia  the  home  of  the  great  phil- 
ologist Cuervo?)  wrote  a  Grammatical  Analysis  of  Pax!  Yet, 
as  Cuervo  himself  has  shown  in  his  intellectual  contest  with 
Valera,f  Spanish  is  destined  to  be  modified  in  Spanish  Amer- 

*  For  studies  of  Silva's  work  the  following  sources  are  easily  available : 

Antonio  Gomez  Restrepo :  La  Literatura  Colombiana,  Revue  His- 
panique,  XLIII,  103,  pp.  184-185. 

Alfred  Coester:  The  Literary  History  of  Spanish- America,  pp.  455- 
457. 

Isaac  Goldberg:     Studies  in  Spanish-American  Literature,  pp.   57-64. 

t  See  El  Filologo  Cuervo  in  Francisco  Garcia  Calderon's  Ideas  e 
Impresiones,  pp.  215-222.  [Editorial  America.]  Rufino  Jose  Cuervo 
(1842-1911)  was  called  by  Menendez  y  Pelayo  the  greatest  Spanish 
philologist  of  the  nineteenth  century. 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

ica  in  somewhat  the  same  fashion  that  Latin  was  in  the  countries 
where  the  Romance  languages  arose, —  a  phenomenon  analogous 
to  the  evolution  of  English  in  the  United  States.*  Grammar 
has  but  an  adventitious  connection  with  good  literature;  it  fol- 
lows, and  by  no  means  leads,  art.  If  linguistic  evolution 
teaches  anything,  it  teaches  that  purists  are  human  signs  that 
change  is  taking  place,  and  that  purists  are  too  extreme  in 
their  static  attitude.  So,  too,  have  Blasco  Ibaiiez  and  Perez 
Galdos  been  attacked  in  Spain  by  the  purists,  and  Dreiser  in 
America.  But  how  many  expert  grammarians  can  write  a 
Canas  y  Barro,  a  Marianela,  or  a  Sister  Carrie? 

As  a  collaborator  in  the  writing  of  Pax,  the  author  names 
Jose  Maria  Rivas  Groot.  The  latter,  in  the  history  of  Colom- 
bian letters  by  Antonio  Gomez  Restrepo,  already  referred  to, 
is  indicated  as  a  poet  of  few  verses,  characterized  by  a  pure, 
Christiaii  idealism,  and  as  a  delicate  chiseler  of  elegant,  aristo- 
cratic prose  in  the  manner  of  the  modern  French  Christian 
school. 

The  growing  public  of  North  America  that  is  interested  in 
Spanish  American  culture, —  that  has  read  Martin  Rivas,  by 
the  Chilean,  Alberto  Blest  Gana,  and  Amalia,  by  the  Argentine 
Jose  Marmol,  for  example,  should  find  a  place  on  its  shelves 
for  Marroquin's  Pax.  ^  To  be  sure,  Pax  considers  the  revolu- 
tionary spirit  from  a  different  angle;  it  is  essentially  aristo- 
cratic in  tone,  but  it  is  none  the  less  an  important  document, 
and  the  other  side  (whichever  side  it  may  be)  should  always 
be  heard.  Pax,  writes  Antonio  Gomez  Restrepo,  is  a  "  repre- 
sentative, national  work  revelatory  of  great  gifts."  In  its  op- 
position to  needless  war  it  speaks  not  only  for  Colombia,  but  for 
all  America, —  for  all  the  world. 

ISAAC  GOLDBERG. 

Roxbury,  Mass., 
March,  1920. 

*  Cf.  The  American  Language,  by  Henry  L.  Mencken.  New  York. 
1919. 


PAX 

CHAPTER  I 

SKETCHES 

"  EXCELLENT  partridges!  "  exclaimed  General  Ronderos  with 
that  smile  which  made  him  look  younger  than  he  really  was. 

He  wiped  his  lips,  raised  his  glass,  looked  at  it  against  the 
light  and  drank  it  with  pleasure.  It  was  a  tepid  Burgundy  that 
permeated  with  its  aroma  the  comfortable  and  refined  atmos- 
phere of  the  room. 

The  tapestries,  the  curtains,  the  sideboards  focussed  on  the 
table  the  light,  which  was  broken  in  the  prisms  of  the  chande- 
liers, sparkled  in  the  glasses  and  shone  on  the  snow  white  table 
cloth.  On  the  center  of  the  table,  forming  a  harmony  of  white 
colors,  rose  a  bouquet  of  Castilian  roses. 

"  Excellent!  "  repeated  Roberto.  "  They  deserve  to  go  down 
into  history,  like  the  falcon  of  the  tale  ...  the  only  falcon  that 
was  ever  served  with  sauce  .  .  ." 

The  ladies  looked  at  Roberto  with  a  mixture  of  surprise  and 
curiosity.  After  a  brief  silence,  during  which  one  could  hear 
the  knives  and  forks  striking  the  plates,  he  continued : 

"  A  poor  nobleman,  a  great  hunter  and  great  lover,  possessed 
as  his  only  fortune  a  falcon  who  was  his  pride  ...  his  Provi- 
dence! " 

"  Something  like  the  crow  of  the  abbot  St.  Anthony?  "  inter- 
rupted Dona  Teresa,  whose  eyes  sparkled  with  irrepressible 
merriment. 

"  That's  it;  but  instead  of  bread,  he  carried  him  pigeons  from 
the  neighborhood.  The  falcon  was  what  he  loved  best  .  .  .  bar- 
ring a  certain  lady  who  lived  in  a  neighboring  castle.  .  .  .  Her 
name  ?  "  Roberto  glanced  at  those  present.  "  I  don't  remember 
it.  ...  Let  us  give  her  a  poetic  name,  like  Dona  Sol,  Violante, 


Ines  .  .  .  ,"  and  he  turned  towards  Ines,  his  cousin,  who  was 
listening  to  the  story  intently. 

Opposite  the  young  woman  sat  Count  Hugo  Dax-Bellegarde,  in 
whose  honor  the  dinner  was  being  given. 

"  The  beautiful  lady  of  the  castle  ...  let  us  call  her  Ines 
.  .  .  admired  this  falcon  of  brilliant  plumage  and  steely  bill. 
She  watched  him  with  delight  darting  through  the  air,  describing 
wide  circles,  taking  his  bearings  away  on  high,  and  with  as- 
tounding dexterity,  with  regal  majesty,  which  I  can  not  describe, 
but  which  you  can  imagine  at  your  own  pleasure,  pouncing  on 
its  prey,  seizing  it  with  its  talons  and  bringing  it  to  his  mas- 
ter .  .  ." 

From  time  to  time,  a  petal,  detaching  itself  from  the  bouquet 
of  roses,  described  a  semicircle,  floated  in  the  warm  air,  fluttered 
and  fell  softly. 

"  One  fine  morning,  a  morning  of  blue  and  gold,  like  the 
mornings  of  all  stories,  he  discovers,  with  a  mixture  of  happiness 
and  anguish,  that  the  lady,  followed  by  her  pages  and  retainers, 
arrives  at  his  castle,  alights  from  her  pony  and  ascends  the  steps 
leading  to  the  main  door. 

"  '  My  lord  marquis,  I  have  invited  myself  to  dine  in  your 
company  to-day  .  .  .'  He  trembles  with  pleasure,  as  well  as 
with  fear  ...  To  dine?  .  .  .  That  day  the  falcon  had  not 
hunted  anything  .  .  .  and  there  was  not  a  turkey  or  even  a 
chicken  in  the  henyard  ...  ah!  ...  yes  ...  a  brilliant  idea! 
.  .  .  and  shaking  with  emotion,  he  gives  his  cook  a  secret  order 
.  .  .  There  was  a  long  interval  .  .  .  Their  appetites  increased 
.  .  .  They  sat  at  the  table  .  .  .  During  the  dinner,  Dona  Ines 
praised  to  the  sky  a  magnificent  bird  which  was  served  to  her  in 
an  excellent  sauce  .  .  .  although  it  was  not  half  so  good  as  this 
one  .  .  .  '  Excellent  partridge !  '  she  exclaimed  .  .  .  even  as 
General  Ronderos  did  just  now  .  .  .  and  at  dessert,  Dona  Ines, 
with  an  irresistible  smile,  asked  a  favor  .  .  . 

"  '  A  favor  ?  ...  my  own  blood  ...  my  own  life  '  .  .  . 

"  *  Not  quite  so  much  as  that,  marquis  .  .  .  Your  falcon  .  .  . 
Your  falcon  is  what  I  desire  .  .  .' 
'My  falcon!  .  .  .' 

'  Yes,  your  falcon  ...  It  is  a  woman's  whim  ...  I  am 
in  love  with  him  .  .  .  He  is  my  only  fancy  ...  Do  you  deny 
it  to  me?  .  .  .  Do  you  really?  .  .  .' 


SKETCHES  3 

"  *  Ah !  ...  It  is  impossible  to  comply  with  your  re- 
quest! '  .  .  . 

'"Impossible?  .  .  .' 

"'Yes,  milady  .  .  .  Impossible!'  .  .  .  exclaimed  the  mar- 
quis. 

"'Why?' 

"  '  Excuse  me  ...  the  falcon  ...  we  have  eaten  it!  '  " 

The  merry  comments  of  the  guests,  dominated  by  the  sonorous 
voice  of  Doctor  Miranda,  filled  the  dining-room. 

"  All  right,"  said  General  Ronderos,  "  what  is  the  end  of 
the  story?  ...  Ah!  yes,"  he  added,  addressing  the  two  cousins 
and  looking  at  them  steadily,  "  I  can  guess  it.  ...  It  ended 
in  a  marriage,  like  all  stories.  .  .  ." 

The  old  general's  joke  made  everybody  smile  maliciously. 
There  followed  a  short  interval  of  silence.  Ines,  slightly  blush- 
ing, pretended  to  be  unconcerned  by  pulling  some  petals  from 
the  roses.  The  general  wa£  asking  himself  if  he  had  been 
guilty  of  some  indiscretion  when,  suddenly,  he  realized  the 
peculiar  position  of  some  of  those  present. /There  flashed 
through  his  mind  the  old  love  of  Ines  and  Roberto,  the  tacit 
consent  of  both  mothers,  the  probable  marriage,  which  had  been 
delayed  because  of  the  young  man's  meager  fortune,  the  strug- 
gles of  the  latter  and  of  Dona  Ana  in  order  to  keep  up  their 
social  position  and  save  the  remains  of  their  former  wealth. 
...  He  saw  in  Count  Bellegarde  —  the  man  of  the  gigantic- 
enterprises  and  untiring  energy,  whom  Ines  was  watching  with 
increasing  interest  —  a  possible  rival  of  Roberto.  .  .  .  Yes,  and 
that  word,  marriage,  which  he  had  spoken  thoughtlessly,  seemed 
to  have  raised  a  problem  in  that  family.  .  .  .  Who  would  be 
the  victor? 

The  steel  blue  eyes  of  the  count,  which  gave  him  a  glacial 
expression,  lit  up,  lik~e  a  lightning  flash,  when  they  contem- 
plated Ines'  sweet  and  serene  face,  and  they  resumed  their  icy 
expression  when  they  saw  at  her  side  Roberto  who,  nervous 
and  supple  both  of  mind  and  body,  radiated  happiness  and 
endeavored  to  make  the  guests  merry  with  his  talk  and  to  draw 
from  a  habitual  gloom  his  own  mother,  whose  white  hair  and 
long  transparent  hands  shone  against  her  black  dress. 

Ines,  wishing  to  break  the  silence  and  to  draw  the  general 
attention  to  some  other  topic,  said  in  her  musical  voice: 


4  PAX 

"  The  legend,  I  believe,  has  served  as  a  theme  for  a  drama. 
Isn't  that  right,  Roberto?  At  least,  that's  what  I  think.  .  .  . 
Now  we'll  find  out.  ..." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  observed  Bellegarde,  coming  to  Ines'  assistance. 
"  It  is  a  drama  by  Tennyson." 

"  To  which  I  prefer  my  own  story  in  plain  Bogota  prose," 
added  Roberto. 

Bellegarde  frowned  imperceptibly;  his  eyelids  twinkled  and 
he  at  once  resumed  his  impassive  and  ceremonious  air. 

The  servants  drew  near,  and  thrusting  their  heads  between 
the  guests,  asked  discreetly:  "  Chateau  Lafitte?  .  .  ." 

They  filled  the  cups  with  the  red  wine.  On  the  snow  white 
table  cloth,  the  ruby  shadows  crossed  the  amethyst  of  the  white 
wines. 

The  roast  was  brought  in. 

Bellegarde,  who  was  on  the  right  of  the  mistress  of  the  house, 
Dona  Teresa,  indicated,  with  a  respectful  gesture,  that  the  lady 
should  help  herself  first. 

"  Do  you  think,  Count,"  asked  Roberto,  "  that  it  is  purely 
gallantry  or  merely  an  old  tradition  that  makes  us  serve  the 
ladies  before  we  serve  the  men?  " 

The  count  remained  silent,  removed  his  monocle,  and  with  a 
forced  smile  of  benevolent  expectation,  looked  at  Roberto. 

"  What  can  it  be  but  a  chivalrous  custom,  like  so  many 
others  of  French  origin?  "  asked  Doctor  Miranda. 

"  Look  up  your  Genesis,  Sebastian,  and  you  will  find  that 
that  custom  comes  from  the  Garden  of  Eden." 

"  From  the  Garden  of  Eden?  " 

"  Yes,  Eve  helped  herself  first." 

While  carving  the  roast,  Dona  Teresa  noticed  that  it  was 
somewhat  tough.  She  shook  her  head  with  a  gesture  of  dis- 
pleasure, smiled  halfheartedly  and  excused  herself,  saying: 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  it  is  not  at  all  tender."  .  .  . 

"  Never  mind,  Aunt,"  said  Roberto.  "  In  that  respect,  it 
resembles  Ines:  It  has  no  heart." 

Among  those  present,  the  figure  of  Doctor  Miranda  was  most 
prominent.  He  was  shaking  his  ascetic  head  negatively  at 
Dona  Ana  and  Dona  Teresa,  with  whom  he  kept  up  a  heated 
conversation.  Yes  .  .  .  yes.  ...  It  was  evident  that  they 
were  reproaching  him  with  his  shyness  in  the  matter  of  speak- 


SKETCHES  5 

ing  from  the  pulpit.  He  never  let  any  one  know  when  he 
was  going  to  preach.  This  was  unpardonable!  Especially 
with  the  members  of  his  own  family.  And  then,  he  chose  the 
humbler  and  more  distant  churches.  But  the  public  guessed 
when  he  was  going  to  preach,  and  they  flocked  to  the  temple 
and  filled  it.  ...  Still,  there  was  not  enough  room  for  all 
those  who  should  profit  by  his  profound,  moving  periods.  .  .  . 
Ah!  he  should  mend  his  ways  in  future. 

Doctor  Miranda  addressed  Roberto  in  his  sonorous  voice. 

"  Isn't  the  last  number  of  La  Illustration  Santajerena  a  great 
one?  "  he  asked. 

"  But  it  is  somewhat  late,"  interrupted  the  general.  "  We 
are  in  the  first  days  of  January  and  the  number  just  out  cor- 
responds to  last  June." 

"  Which  means  that  our  subscribers  are  six  months  younger 
than  those  who  are  not  on  our  list.  You  ought  to  be  thankful 
to  me,  for  I  have  given  you  the  elixir  of  Youth." 

"  And  very  fine  reading,  too,  which  I  recommend  to  all  my 
daughters  of  confession.  .  .  .  Your  study  of  Santa  Fe  customs, 
your  colonial  sketches,  are  masterpieces.  I  have  personally  at- 
tended those  homely  gatherings  of  our  grandfathers  where,  be- 
tween sip  and  sip  of  chocolate,  the  chronicles  of  the  city  were 
commented  on,  the  newspapers  were  read,  the  news  from  Spain 
was  discussed  and  inoffensive  jokes,  in  perfect  good  taste,  were 
enjoyed  more  than  the  chocolate.  You  have  faithfully  por- 
trayed that  society, —  a  society  capable  of  the  greatest  deeds, 
able  to  fill  the  highest  positions  and  whose  lives  glided  along 
in  the  greatest  peacefulness,  in  the  grace  of  God,  without 
bitternesses,  without  ambitions,  without  jealousies,  without  any 
desires,  except  that  of  dying  a  Christian  death." 

And  while  he  spoke,  his  broad  expressive  gestures  gave  his 
words  greater  force,  a  special  energy.  His  voice,  trained  in  the 
pulpit,  possessed  rich  and  varied  inflections  and  it  was  wann- 
ing up  with  the  heat  of  his  own  ideas. 

"  Senor  Bellegarde,"  he  continued,  "  you,  as  a  tourist,  prob- 
ably will  wish  to  know  the  Santa  Fe  society  of  a  hundred  years 
ago,  so  different  from  our  own,  which  has  lost  its  personality, 
its  own  character.  I  strongly  advise  you  to  read  Roberto's 
articles."  And  then,  addressing  the  latter,  he  said:  "  I  thank 
you  most  cordially.  You  have  given  me  the  greatest  frights 


6  PAX 

with  your  bull-fights;  I  have  taken  part  in  the  excursions  to 
Aserrio  and  Guarruz  de  Fucha;  you  filled  me  with  devotion 
and  enchantment  in  your  Corpus  procession;  I  have  prayed  in 
your  mangers  the  Novena  of  the  Child,  and  I  have  danced 
afterwards.  .  .  .  Are  you  laughing,  Teresa?  I  have  danced 
the  sampianito  and  the  bolero  to  the  accompaniment  of  the 
guitar;  I  have  smacked  my  lips  with  pleasure  at  the  meat  cakes 
and  doughnuts  after  the  dinner." 

Bellegarde,  who  had  become  interested  in  the  figure  of  the 
priest,  paid  now  still  more  attention  to  him. 

The  appearance  of  Doctor  Miranda  was  of  those  that  reveal 
superiority  and  are  rendered  attractive  by  this  same  superiority 
because  there  is  no  attempt  at  domineering  over  other  people. 
His  bearing  was  stately  and  unconsciously  majestic;  his  eyes 
piercing  and  full  of  life;  his  forehead  bony  and  meditative. 
A  few  white  hairs  at  his  temples,  the  paleness  of  his  com- 
plexion, the  marks  of  penitence,  meditation  and  intellectual 
toil,  formed  a  contrast  with  the  immaculate  whiteness  of  his 
skin  and  the  moist  glitter  of  his  pupils.  The  habit  of  solemn 
and  benevolent  thoughts,  the  internal  peacefulness  of  a  stain- 
less life,  the  love  for  his  fellowbeings,  the  joy  of  an  ineffable 
hope  were  reflected  in  his  smile,  appeared  in  his  graceful  ges- 
tures and  marked  his  whole  personality  with  an  indelible  seal. 

"  Our  ancestors,"  continued  Doctor  Miranda  after  a  brief 
pause,  "  managed  to  be  happy,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they  did 
not  know  Wagner,  or  Nietzsche,  or  Zarathustra.  .  .  ." 

"  Or  Tennyson's  dramas,"  added  Roberto. 

Bellegarde,  trying  to  please  Ines,  observed: 

"  I  don't  think  that  all  of  Tennyson's  dramas  are  good.  I 
confess  that  in  the  poet's  garden,  frozen  by  the  wintry  snows, 
the  flowers  were  not  blooming  when  he  wrote  his  dramas.  .  .  . 
I  owe  him  a  debt  of  gratitude  because  he  charmed  me,  he  pro- 
foundly moved  me  with  his  Becket.  .  .  .  There  is  where  we  can 
judge  him,  especially  when  Irving,  the  great  tragedian,  produces 
the  play." 

"Ah!  .  .  .  then  it  is  Irving  who  achieves  the  success." 

"  He  could  not  do  anything  without  such  a  magnificent 
theme,  without  the  transformation  of  the  man  of  the  world,  the 
sinner,  into  the  saint,  the  martyr  that  the  author  has  portrayed. 
...  I  fancy  I  can  see  him  now  in  the  last  act,  wearing  his 


SKETCHES  7 

miter,  wounded,  dying  on  the  steps  of  the  altar,  while  the  low 
chant  of  the  monks  reaches  one  mixed  with  the  shouts  of  the 
mob  and  the  rumbles  of  the  thunder  that  shakes  the  huge 
basilica  to  its  very  foundations." 

Bellegarde  spoke  slowly,  in  a  monotonous  tone,  with  a  slight 
French  accent,  searching  for  the  proper  words,  but  his  Spanish 
was  correct  and  pure. 

General  Ronderos  complimented  him  on  his  perfect  com- 
mand of  the  Spanish  language,  and  Bellegarde  replied  that  it 
was  not  to  be  wondered  at,  for  his  mother  was  Spanish  and  he 
was  an  admirer  of  the  tongue  and  literature  of  Castile. 

"  Did  you  see  Irving  in  Charles  I?  "  asked  Roberto  wishing 
to  give  him  a  subject  for  conversation  in  which  he  seemed 
to  be  perfectly  at  home. 

"Of  course!  "  exclaimed  Bellegarde  eagerly,  moved  by  the 
remembrance.  "  I  saw  him.  ...  Ah !  it  is  fifteen  years  ago. 
...  A  long  time,  isn't  it?  ...  Charles  I  was  Irving's  great 
battle.  It  was  his  Marengo.  He  became  so  absorbed  in  his 
role,  that  one  might  have  thought  Van  Dyck's  great  picture 
had  come  to  life.  I  remember  the  august,  cold  and  melancholy 
attitude  (and  Bellegarde  turned  instinctively  to  Dona  Ana);  I 
remember  the  haughty  and  glacial  look,  the  bitter  smile,  the 
pale  forehead  crossed  by  blue  veins,  in  which  one  could  see 
the  mark  of  a  tragic  predestination." 

And  as  he  spoke,  he  observed  the  two  ladies,  trying  to  divine 
their  souls,  to  reconstruct  their  whole  lives  from  their  faces. 
They  seemed  to  be  of  the  same  age.  But  what  a  difference 
there  was  between  them!  One  of  them,  Dona  Ana,  with  her 
white  head  and  the  vague  melancholy  tint  in  her  eyes,  revealed 
a  life  of  bitterness  and  sorrowful  resignation.  The  other  one, 
Dona  Teresa,  with  the  lively  joy  which  sparkled  in  her  pupils, 
with  her  full  rosy  cheeks,  reflected  wellbeing  and  a  life  of 
ease.  .  .  .  And  then,  what  a  contrast  between  their  children, 
who  were  opposite  Bellegarde!  f Thg^ melancholy  of  Dona  Ana 
had  given  forth  the  jocularity  of  Roberto;  tne  exhuberant 
vivacity^of  ppna  Teresa,  the  reserve  of  Ines.  / 
^~BelTegarde  was  gradually  arousing  ih'  Ines  a  sentiment  op- 
posite to  the  one  she  had  entertained  when  she  met  him  for 
the  first  time  a  few  days  previously.  At  first,  his  cold  im- 
passible appearance  had  been  repulsive,  but  now  a  new  man 


8  PAX 

was  emerging  before  her.  Through  the  thick  veil  that  seemed 
to  cover  his  mind,  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  watch  and  control 
himself,  there  shone  a  ray  of  light,  a  spark  of  fire  which  re- 
vealed him  as  an  ardent  lover  of  art. 

When  the  dinner  ended,  they  went  to  the  drawingroom.  As 
they  passed  through  the  gallery,  the  Count  observed  the  old 
portraits  and  the  alabaster  vases  that  adorned  it.  In  the  draw- 
ingroom, he  noticed  the  perfect  style,  premier  empire,  in  which 
the  yellow  designs  of  the  silk  hangings  and  the  gilt  of  the 
furniture,  picture  frames  and  chandeliers  harmonized  with 
the  general  tone  of  the  room,  with  all  those  gradations  of  green 
which  in  a  delightful  cadence,  like  in  a  musical  chord,  de- 
scended from  the  brilliant  green  of  an  emerald  to  the  opaque 
tint  of  dry  leaves  and  the  deepest  dark-green  of  the  waters  of  a 
pool. 

Dona  Teresa  and  Dona  Ana  withdrew  to  the  neighboring 
room,  the  music  salon. 

"  Ana,  I  have  noticed  that  you  are  sad,  .  .  ."  said  Dona 
Teresa,  affectionately.  "  I  have  watched  you  a  good  deal. 
I  know  you  had  to  sell  our  old  family  mansion.  .  .  .  Such  a 
comfortable  house.  .  .  .  Whom  did  you  sell  it  to?  " 

"  To  a  stranger  who  will  arrive  here  in  a  few  days.  I  am 
very  sorry,  especially  on  account  of  goberjto." 

"  How  is  that?  .  .  .  He  seems  so  happy  to-night.  ..."        \ 

"  The  very  days  on  which  he  is  most  worried  are  the  ones  i 
on  which  he  appears  merrier  and  more  loving.     Look  at  hiny 
.  .  .  there  he  is  in  the  center  of  that  group,  making  everybody 
laugh.  .  .  .  All  the  same,  I  am  sure  that  at  this  very  moment 
he  is  thinking  that  this  week  he  must  surrender  the  house  to 
a  stranger.  ...  It  is  the  remains  of  our  fortune.  .  .  .  That 
house  is  so  full  of  memories.     I  confess  I  have  not  had  the 
courage  to  go  there  for  weeks  and  weeks." 

"  Don't  worry  about  Roberto.     He  has  genius  and  can  adapt 
^  himself  to  everything.  .  .  .  We  all  love  him   so  much.  .  .^ 
Besides,  there  is  that  project  of  Count  Bellegarde.  ...  Ah! 
.  .  .  there  is  a  great  future  for  Roberto !  " 

In  the  center  of  the  drawingroom,  in  a  noisy  group  formed  by 
General  Ronderos,  Count  Bellegarde,  Ines  and  Roberto,  and  of 
which  the  latter  was  the  life  and  soul,  they  were  chatting  about 
everything, —  the  next  opera  season,  with  Rondinelli  as  prima 


f 


SKETCHES  9 

donna  and  Malatesta  as  tenor, —  of  the  horse  races  organized 
for  the  benefit  of  the  College  Hospital  by  Gonzalez  Mjogollon, 
—  of  the  two  newly  launched  reviews :  La  Mujer  Independiente, 
edited  by  Dona  Aura  de  Cardoso  and  La  Pagoda  Nietzsche,  di- 
rected by  the  poet  Solon  Carlos  Mata. 

General  Ronderos,  at  that  time  Secretary  of  War,  was 
temporarily  in  charge  of  the  Treasury,  and  Bellegarde,  who 
had  come  to  the  country  to  develop  some  big  enterprises,  took 
him  to  a  corner  of  the  room  where  coffee  had  been  served  on 
a  marble  table..  There,  speaking  in  measured  tones  and  with 
sober  gestures,/  he  explained  to  the  interested  Minister  the 
wonders  wrought  through  peace  and  the  capital  supplied  by 
his  company  in  other  American  countries. 

His   company    specialized   in   colonizing   virgin   lands   and 

canalizing  rivers.     He  had  executed  important  projects  in  the 

United  States,  Mexico  and  Argentina.     Unfortunately,  his  stay 

in  Colombia  would  have  to  be  short,  for  his  friends  wished  to 

'    canalize  the  Seine,  so  as  to  make  Paris  a  sea  port,  and  with 

this  purpose  in  view,  estimates  and  plans  had  already  been 

submitted  to  the  commission  who  were  studying  the  project. 

\~-*ln  his  opinion,  Colombia  was  the  richest  and  had  the  most 

\   brilliant  future  of  all  the  South  American  countries.     AH  they 

1  needed  was  peace,  and  her  material  progress,  her  wealth,  her 

institutions  would  render  her  incomparable.     Bellegarde  was 

the  representative  of  some  great  financiers,  a  powerful  com-  } 

s:  pany,  a  business  like  group,  "  his  group." 

V General  Ronderos,  whose  lively  face  of  mobile  features  and 

eyes  that  sparkled  under  the  gray  eyebrows,  forming  a  strong 
contrast  with  the  studied  coldness  of  the  Count,  listened 
ecstatically  to  these  progressive  projects. 

"  In  this  country,  crossed  as  it  is  by  three  mountain  ranges," 
said  Bellegarde,  "  railroads  are  far  too  expensive.  ...  In 
order  to  reach  your  ports,  you  need  to  look  for  cheaper  roads, 
and  the  best  are  those  that  Nature  herself  offers  you :  the  water- 
ways. You  have  that  outlet  to  the  sea,  only  it  is  primitive, 
wild,  undisciplined.  .  .  .  You  must  tame  it,  domesticate  it; 
you  must  confine  the  Magdalena  river  to  its  own  bed  and  in- 
crease its  flow  by  deepening  its  channel  .  .  .  and  then  you  will 
have,  my  dear  Minister,  a  great  port  at  Honda,  Port  Ronderos, 
with  ships  like  the  La  Normandie  and  La  Touraine  anchored 


10  PAX 

in  it.  ..."  And  the  Count  continued  to  elucidate  his  ideas, 
displaying  great  knowledge  of  the  subject,  full  of  enthusiasm 
and  faith  which  he  communicated  to  the  old  general. 

"  Ah !  Sefior  Bellegarde,  we  are  going  to  do  a  great  deal 
for  this  country.  I  want  to  see  you  and  Roberto  to-morrow 
without  fail  at  the  office  of  the  Treasury.  I  have  already  given 
your  plans  to  Doctor  Karlonoff,  consulting  engineer  to  the 
Treasury." 

Roberto  approached  them. 

"  Sefior  Avila:  you  are  one  of  us.  I  thank  you  for  the 
faith  you  have  in  our  project  and  for  the  trust  you  have  placed 
in  me,  taking  shares  as  a  founder  of  the  company.  .  .  .  You 
will  not  be  sorry  for  it.  The  enterprise  will  enrich  both  the 
country  and  the  shareholders  ...  if  there  is  peace." 

General  Ronderos,  twirling  his  mustache  with  enthusiasm, 
spoke  encomiastically  to  Roberto  of  the  contractor's  knowledge, 
his  intuition  and  the  accuracy  of  his  computations. 

"  Oh!  that's  nothing,  my  dear  Minister;  to  find  that  the  Mag- 
dalena  is  the  most  important  means  of  communication  in  Col- 
ombia, is  like  Columbus'  egg." 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  raise  an  objection,  my  dear  Belle- 
garde?  " 

The  Count  thought  that  Roberto  was  going  to  object  to  his 
project;  he  took  off  his  monocle,  keeping  it  raised  in  his  hand, 
and  prepared  to  reply. 

"  Go  ahead." 

"  I  wished  to  remark  .  .  .  that  there  isn't  such  a  thing  as 
Columbus'  egg." 

Doctor  Miranda  and  Ines  had  approached  them.  Belle- 
garde  replaced  his  monocle  and  resumed  his  cold  affability. 

"Ah!  Brunelleschi." 

"  How  is  that?  "  asked  Ines. 

"  The  cicerone  who  showed  me  around  Florence  told  me  all 
about  it,"  said  Roberto.  "  The  only  Italian  I  spoke  was  what 
they  use  in  the  operas,  but  my  guide  spoke  so  eagerly  and  with 
such  gestures  that  I  understood  him  perfectly.  Santa  Maria 
del  Fiore,  the  cathedral  at  Florence,  was  not  completed;  it 
lacked  the  roof.  A  competition  was  established  for  the  adop- 
tion of  a  covering.  On  the  appointed  day,  the  judges  met  to 
examine  the  different  projects.  Brunelleschi  proposed  that  they 


SKETCHES  11 

should  build  an  egg-shaped  cupola.  The  idea  seemed  imprac- 
ticable; they  thought  him  mad  and  threw  him  out  of  the  hall, 
but  he  came  back.  '  Let  us  see,  gentlemen :  this  is  the  shape 
of  my  cupola.  Whoever  manages  to  make  this  egg  stand  on 
end  on  this  table,  let  him  be  chosen  to  finish  the  cathedral.' 
The  architects  took  up  the  egg,  examined  it  and  burst  out 
laughing.  Brunelleschi  then  picked  up  the  egg,  dented  it  a 
little  and  left  it  standing  vertically  .  .  .  but,  of  course,  it 
stained  the  table  cover." 

"  And  that  very  cupola  was  the  despair  of  Michelangelo," 
concluded  Doctor  Miranda.  "  When  he  was  thinking  about 
the  dome  of  St.  Peter  he  admired  it  without  wishing  to  imitate 
it  ...  and  in  his  spite,  he  kept  repeating:  '  I  do  not  wish 
to  copy  you,  and  I  can't  surpass  you.  .  .  .  Come  te,  non 
voglio;  meglio  di  te,  non  posso.' '' 

"  But  he  ended  by  imitating  it,  and  he  was  rewarded  with 
all  the  glory  due  to  originality.  To-day  nobody  remembers 
Brunelleschi,  and  that's  the  reason  why  I  took  his  part, —  so 
that  he  may  be  given  the  credit  of  having,  at  least  stained  the 
cover  of  a  table  with  the  yoke  of  an  egg  .  .  .  which  is  the  fate 
of  those  who  do  not  profit  from  their  inventions,  while  others 
grow  fat  upon  them,"  said  Roberto.  "  This  has  been  very  aptly 
expressed  in  a  single  verse  of  Cyrano  de  Bergerac  .  .  .  ma 
vie  ...  ce  fut  d'etre  celui  qui  souffle  —  et  qu'on  oublie!  " 

"  And  perhaps  that's  why  they  call  you  Bergerac,"  inter- 
rupted Doctor  Miranda. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  music,  Count?  " 

Roberto  offered  his  arm  to  his  cousin,  led  her  to  the  piano 
and  stood  close  to  her. 

Passing  near  a  table,  Ines  left  upon  it  a  bouquet  of  Castile 
roses  that  she  had  been  wearing  in  her  corsage. 

General  Ronderos  walked  over  to  Doctor  Miranda.  Belle- 
garde,  who  was  greatly  displeased  at  the  intimacy  between  the 
two  cousins,  stood  up  and  in  his  inscrutable  attitude,  which  at 
times  revealed  indifference  and  at  times  ennui,  began  to  walk 
around  the  room,  his  monocle  in  his  eye,  bending  over  to  look 
at  some  photographs  or  standing  to  examine  some  oil  paintings. 
He  stopped  before  two  richly  framed  canvases  of  equal  size. 
He  let  his  monocle  drop,  took  a  step  back  and  knit  his  brow. 
They  did  not  displease  him.  Modern  paintings,  unsteady  brush, 


12  PAX 

same  hand,  though  the  subjects  were  different;  opposite  tend- 
encies. .  .  . 

Yes,  yes,  they  were  by  the  same  artist  .  .  .  and  in  the  ap- 
parent contrast  between  the  two  canvases,  there  was  the  same 
idea,  the  same  symbol,  the  same  marked  purpose.  .  .  .  Even 
viewing  them  from  afar,  taking  them  in  with  one  look,  the 
coloring  indicated  the  intention  of  the  artist.  One  was  a  pic- 
ture of  luminous  warm  tones;  the  other  of  cold  somber  tints. 
The  atmosphere  of  the  two  pictures  revealed  the  antithesis, —  a 
tragic  play  of  colors. 

He  approached  one  of  the  pictures  and  observed  its  details  .  .  . 
The  subject,  treated  with  brilliant  and  transparent  tints,  was 
a  race  course.  He  looked  at  the  other  one;  a  gray  landscape, 
a  battlefield. 

"  Let  us  examine  the  details,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  moved 
close  up  to  the  pictures.  "  Surely  this  isn't  the  hand  of  a 
master,  but  rather  that  of  an  amateur.  .  .  Faulty  design,  lack 
of  training,  little  anatomic  vigor  .  .  .  better  idea  than  execu- 
tion. .  .  There  is  no  relation  between  the  idea  and  its  develop- 
ment .  .  .  perhaps  they  are  not  finished  works  but  sketches  .  .  . 
they  are  not  bad;  in  spite  of  carelessness,  there  is  depth  of  feel- 
ing in  the  coloring  .  .  brilliancy,  frankness,  energy  .  .  .  The 
Racecourse.  A  luminous  sky  that  reflects  its  splendor  on  the 
flat  stretch  of  turf  ...  the  track,  the  stands  full  of  specta- 
tors. .  .  It  is  an  open  air  study,  full  of  movement,  faces  brim- 
ming with  anxiety,  groups  of  people,  and  here  and  there,  bright- 
ening up  the  whole,  touches  of  red,  blue  and  yellow  in  the  pen- 
nants, in  the  parasols,  in  the  dresses,  in  the  jockeys'  jackets. 
This  landscape,  this  crowd,  this  movement,  enveloped  in  a  warm 
atmosphere,  in  a  splendor  of  amber  that  caresses  and  trans- 
figures everything.  .  .  The  other  one?  .  .  .  The  gray  land- 
scape. .  .  A  uniform,  monotonous,  almost  upleasant  daub  with 
mysterious  intensities  in  its  shadows.  From  the  milky  sky 
descends  the  light  on  a  desert  of  great  black  undulations.  To- 
wards the  back,  amid  the  fog,  reddish  flashes  that  suggest  a 
battle  .  .  .  away  in  the  background.  .  .  Here,  in  the  fore- 
ground, an  officer  lies  on  the  ground  alone,  abandoned  near  a 
dead  fire.  The  thread  of  smoke  that  rises  near  the  dying 
officer  gives  the  picture  an  air  of  heartrending  desolation.  The 
ensemble  causes  an  intense,  deep  feeling.  The  idea  of  the 


SKETCHES  13 

artist  is  revealed  in  the  canvas  with  melancholy  grandeur." 

The  music  continued.  To  the  right,  -Roberto,  with  his  hand 
on  the  music  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  Ines,  watched  for  the  moment 
in  which  Ines,  with  a  rapid  smile  and  an  inclination  of  her 
head,  should  signal  to  him  to  turn  over  the  leaf.  Bellegarde 
left  the  pictures  and  walked  over  to  the  piano.  He  saw  the 
couple,  the  smile.  .  .  The  eternal  idyl  of  the  cousins  ...  a 
sure  marriage.  .  .  But  no,  let  us  not  think  about  the  music, 
let  us  go  back  to  the  pictures.  .  .  Passing  near  the  table,  he 
stopped,  lifted  the  bouquet,  inhaled  its  fragrance,  pulled  a  few 
roses  .  .  .  then  returned  to  the  canvases.  "  This  jockey,  here 
in  the  foreground,  victoriously  advancing  on  the  black  mare, 
in  that  cloud  of  luminous  dust,  has  been  studied  with  more  care 
.  .  .  One  can  guess,  one  can  see  the  model.  .  .  .  And  the  same 
with  the  dying  officer  in  the  gray  picture.  .  .  .  It  is  a  fine  spirit- 
ual face  .  .  .  yes.  Is  it  the  same  model?  I  have  seen  that 
face  somewhere.  .  .  Where?  Ah!  yes,  her  cousin,  always  her 
cousin  .  .  .  Roberto!  \ 

The  music  stoppedr .  .  There  was  a  brief  applause. 

Bellegarde,  who  was  at  one  end  of  the  drawingroom,  started 
to  cross  it,  in  order  to  congratulate  Ines,  and  Roberto,  watching 
him,  felt  himself  involuntarily  attracted  to  the  stranger,  because 
his  lordly  feudal  air  was  softened  by  a  visage  on  which  one 
could  always  read  high  and  noble  thoughts  and  because  of  his 
exquisite  distinction.  .  . 

There  were  complimentary  phrases  and  excuses.  .  .  "  No 
...  no  ...  I  really  don't  deserve  so  many  compliments." 
There  were  comments  on  her  interpretation,  on  Chopin,  on 
Sonatas. 

"  I  see,"  said  Ines,  "  that  you  are  a  connoisseur,  an  artist, 
and  that  you  have  a  special  taste  for  music." 

"  Ah !  senorita,  allow  me  to  give  you  an  engineer's  definition, 
—  for  I  am  one;  music  is  a  combination  of  two  forces,  two 
beautiful  forces:  the  force  of  the  mind  and  the  force  of  sound." 

"  I  disagree  with  you.  .  .  That  is  not  an  engineer's  defini- 
tion; that  is  an  artist's  definition  .  .  .  and  from  a  good  artist, 
too.  .  .  And  you,  how  do  you  define  music,  Roberto?  "  asked 
Ines. 

"  Music  is  an  exact  expression  of  the  indefinite.  Another 
mathematical  definition." 


14  PAX 

"  You  surely  must  be  able  to  play  the  piano,"  insinuated 
the  Count,  and  as  Roberto  answered  in  the  negative,  he  con- 
tinued: "Then,  I  am  sure  that  you  can  sing,  accompanied 
by  Mademoiselle." 

"  Sing?  You  know,  of  course,  that  the  song  of  an  owl  pre- 
sages the  death  of  a  man.  .  .  If  I  were  to  sing,  my  voice  would 
presage  the  death  of  the  owls." 

Bellegarde,  who  had  gone  back  to  observe  the  pictures,  cast 
a  questioning  look  about  him. 

"Ah Lyes,"  exclaimed  Dona  Teresa,  who  had  approached 
him.  u  You  want  to  know  who  painted  them  ?  .  .  .  A  nephew 
of  mine,  .  .  Alejandro.  .  .  He  sent  me  them  from  Europe  three 
months  ago.  If  you  only  knew  him!  He  can  do  everything; 
he  travels,  paints,  writes  .  .  .  amuses  himself.  .  .  An  artist 
.  .  .  Artist?  no,  not  exactly  ...  a  passionate  amateur,  great 
heart,  an  intimate  friend  of  Roberto.  .  .  You  will  meet  him 
soon,  for  he  arrives  the  day  after  to-morrow.'* 

"  A  passionate  amateur,  yes,"  said  Roberto/  "  A  squanderer 
of  sentiments,  a  searcher  for  emotions  ...  a  St.  Augustine 
...  in  the  first  period.  .  ." 

"Ah!  but  that  good  heart,"  said  Doctor  Miranda,  "will 
reach  the  second  period,  the  second  epoch  through  divine  grace." 

"  Above  all,  he  is  a  great  friend,"  said  Roberto. 

"  Yes,"  observed  Doctor  Miranda,  "  his  is  a  generous  friend- 
ship. Of  his  friendship  it  can't  be  said  that  it  is  like  the 
barren  figtree  of  the  parable.  .  ." 

"What  title  have  you  given  those  sketches.,.  .  I  beg  your 
pardon,  pictures?  "  asked  Bellegarde. 

"Ah!  seiior,"  said  Dona  Ana  in  a  voice  that  was  much 
younger  than  her  face,  "  Roberto  gave  Alejandro  the  idea  for 
these  pictures  and  he  caused  me  great  grief  by  serving  as 
model.  .  .  Just  you  imagine  it, —  model  for  a  dead  man.  .  .  I 
have  even  dreamt  that  I  saw  him  in  that  desert.  .  .  Well,  he, 
who  had  suggested  the  idea,  wished  to  give  them  their  titles  and 
mentioned  '  Light  and  Shadow  '.  .  .  This  business  of  the  titles 
has  started  a  polemic  in  the  family.  Everybody  suggests  differ- 
ent titles;  Teresa,  *  Day  and  Night,'  Sebastian,  '  Antithesis  ' 
...  let  us  see,  who  else?  .  .  .  General  Ronderos,  *  Peace  and 
War.'  .  ." 


f 

SKETCHES  15 

"  Ines  has  suggested,"  said  Roberto,  "  the  motto  in  our  family 
coat-of-arms :  *  Glory  and  Grief.' >; 

"  Excellent,  senorita,"  excaimed  the  Count.  "  It  expresses 
a  great  deal.  Bien  trouve!  " 

"  And  you,  Seiior  Bellegarde,  what  title  would  give  them?  " 
asked  Ines. 

After  thinking  for  a  moment,  Bellegarde  answered: 

"  I  would  look,  not  for  two  titles,  not  the  antithesis,  not  the 
equilibrium  between  two  ideas,  but  the  expression  of  the  artist's 
intimate  thought,  something  that  will  embrace  both  pictures 
.  .  .  both  subjects.  .  .  A  sort  of  frame  that  could  enclose  both 
canvases,  presenting  them  together  as  one  whole  ...  as  the 
lesson,  as  the  desire,  as  the  feeling  that  those  pictures  awake 
in  one;  as  a  soul-cry  coming  from  the  artist  himself  and  that 
re-echoes  powerfully  in  the  onlookers:  the  joys  of  peace,  the 
horrors  of  war.  .  .  I  don't  know.  .  .  I  can't  find.  .  . 

And  he  took  off  his  monocle  and  passed  his  hand  over  his 
brow. 

"  A  telegram,"  said  one  of  the  servants. 

"  It  is  for  me,"  said  Roberto,  "  and  it  is  from  Alejandro!  " 

"  From  Alejandro?  "  asked  several  persons  at  the  same  time. 

"  Yes,  he  is  coming  ...  he  is  at  Honda.  Aunt  Teresa, 
he  sends  his  kind  regards  to  you  and  Ines;  a  loving  embrace 
for  you,  mother,  and  something  else  .  .  .  what's  this?  .  .  . 
very  bad  news!  look  here,  General  Ronderos.  .  ." 

And  he  handed  the  telegram  to  the  General,  who  going  over 
to  a  chandelier,  took  out  his  spectacles  and  read  slowly  until 
he  suddenly  frowned  and  crushed  the  paper  in  his  hand. 

"  What  is  it?  "  they  all  asked. 

The  General  returned  the  telegram  and  it  passed  from  hand 
to  hand.  Alejandro  announced  that  Floro  Landaburo  had 
returned  from  abroad,  and  that  as  he  passed  through  the  differ- 
ent cities,  he  was  organizing  committees  and  addressing  politi- 
cal/ meetings. 

J*  He  is  the  eternal  agitator,"  said  Roberto  to  Bellegarde  as 
an  explanation  of  what  was  happening.  "  A  worthless  man, 
incapable  of  any  good  .  .  .  but  quite  able  to  set  everything 
on  fire.  .  ." 

A  young  soldier  appeared  in  the  drawingroom.     He  had  a 


• 

16  PAX 

r 

wide  scar  on  his  forehead,  and  his  manners  and  gestures  in- 
dicated that  discipline  was  uppermost  in  his  thoughts. 

"  Hello,  Borrero!  "  exclaimed  Roberto,  "  what  are  you  bring- 
ing us?  " 

The  Colonel  handed  the  Minister  a  telegram  that  read  thus: 


V  Secretary  of  War: 
Arrive  making  propaganda  towards  peace. 

F.  Landdburo." 

General  Ronderos  exclaimed  in  a  rough  voice: 

"  It  means  war!  ..." 

"  This  man,"  added  Roberto  addressing  the  Count,  "  will 
arrive  at  Bogota,  will  found  a  paper  and  agitate  the  country. 
Meanwhile,  Tubalcain  Cardoso,  another  revolutionist,  who  was 
in  the  Cuban  war  and  is  now  involved  in  a  revolution  in  Central 
America,  will  come  to  invade  us.  .  .  They  will  find  out  pretty 
soon  that  Cardoso,  with  an  army  of  adventurers,  will  pene- 
trate into  the  Llanos." 

All  conversations  ceased.  A  horrible  thought  killed  all  joy. 
Everybody,  seized  by  fear,  had  the  presentiment  of  a  disaster. 

Dona  Ana,  passing  her  trembling  hand  through  her  hair,  cast 
a  horrified  glance  at  the  gray  landscape,  the  battle-field,  the 
desert  with  the  great  black  undulations  where  the  officer, 
stretched  on  the  ground,  was  dying,  abandoned  near  the  ex- 
tinguished fire.  .  .  The  thread  of  smoke,  rising  by  the  side  of 
the  dying  officer  gave  the  picture  an  air  of  heartrending  desola- 
tion. 

"  Ah!  my  good  friend,"  said  General  Ronderos  addressing  the 
Count  and  restlessly  pacing  the  room.  "  These  rumors  always 
come  at  the  moments  of  greatest  abandon  and  joy.  The  thunder 
of  battles  is  constantly  rumbling  in  our  ears,  and  when  the 
country  begins  to  recover  from  its  misfortunes,  when  the  future 
smiles  at  us,  alarms  like  this  one,"  and  here,  he  shook  the 
telegram  violently,  "  come  to  shatter  our  hopes.  /  In  all  Colom- 
bian homes,  these  alarms  are  lugubriously  echoed.  Upon  the 
happiness  of  work,  follow  terror  and  anguish.  The  revolution 
advances  silently;  it  is  the  lava  that  flows  relentlessly  in  the 
dark,  seeking  an  outlet,  and  sooner  or  later  explodes  through 
the  crater." 


MUSIC  AND  POLITICS  17 

Doctor  Miranda,  with  a  voice  that  filled  the  spacious  draw- 
ingroom,  exclaimed: 

"  V#cem  terroris  audivimus,  formido  et  non  est  pax"  And 
i  fearing  that  the  ladies  had  not  understood,  he  translated: 
I  "  Voices  of  terror  reach  us,  fear  reigns  everywhere,  there  is  no 
'  peace.  Non  est  pax" 

"That's   it!"   exclaimed   Bellegrade  with   a   wide   gestui 
"  That  ought  to  be  the  title  of  those  pictures :     Pax!  "  \ 


CHAPTER  II 

MUSIC   AND   POLITICS 

GENERAL  RONDEROS  interrupted  his  walk,  and  standing  in 
the  middle  of  the  drawingroom,  said: 

"  I  will  maintain  peace  at  all  costs!  " 

The  light  of  a  chandelier,  striking  him  full,  brought  out  the 
lineaments  of  his  energetic  visage.  The  strong  features,  the 
wide  bronzed  forehead,  the  bushy  eyebrows,  the  mustache  trim- 
med over  the  lip,  the  protruding  jaw,  everything  in  that  face 
indicated  a  dominating  soul,  predestined  to  struggle  and  com- 
mand. 

"  I'll  vouch  for  it,"  said  Roberto,  "  but  as  long  as  you  hold 
office,  you  will  see  how  they  start  a  campaign  to  oust  you,  and 
then  there  will  be  war." 

|  "  Is  that  possible?  "  asked  Bellegarde.  "  This  country  is  so 
urtfortunate  and  so  rich!  It  needs  only  peace.  Surely  all  its 
inhabitants,  understanding  their  own  interest,  will  work  against 
civil  war,  which  brings  only  ruin  and  death."  /  '  •  *  : 

On  hearing  the  last  word,  Dona  Ana  shivered  and  instinct- 
tively  turned  to  look  at  the  picture  in  which  Roberto  had  been 
portrayed  dying  in  the  gloomy  desert. 

.    "  In  these  countries,  my  friend   Bellegarde,"   said  Roberto, 
{  "  in  these  American  countries,  there  are  elements  interested  in 

; peace  and  elements  interested  in  War.  ...  It  is  a  queer  thing! 
Here  war  is  the  field  of  the  weak,  of  those  who  have  been  van- 
quished by  life.  Peace  is  the  field  of  the  strong,  who  through 
their  genius,  their  work  and  their  perseverance  obtain  a  posi- 
tion, a  fortune,  a  name.  .  .  And  it  is  very  queer  also  that  de- 


i8  PAX 

feated  revolutions  strengthen,  rather  than  weaken  governments 
against  which  they  are  started." 

"  Is  that  true?  We,  in  Europe,  will  never  be  able  to  under- 
stand these  American  countries." 

In  order  to  change  the  disagreeable  subject,  Roberto  opened 
a  copy  of  La  Mujer  Independiente. 

"  My  friend  Bellegarde,  this  is  a  review  edited  by  Dona 
Aura  del  Campo  de  Cardoso.  .  .  The  very  wife  of  Tubalcain 
Cardoso,  the  famous  revolutionist.  .  .  Do  you  wish  me  to  read 
something?  '  Contents:  Woman  in  XXI  century;  Feminism 
advances;  Psychological  monograph  by  Policarpa  Salabarrieta ; 
A  solution  through  divorce;  The  mix-up  of  a  Death,  or  The 
Accursed  Gypsy,  by  A.  del  C.  de  C.'  ': 

Roberto  closed  the  magazine,  stood  thinking  for  a  minute,  and 
then  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"  I  understand  it  now;  that  novel  is  a  vengeance.  Yes,  sir. 
A  few  days  ago  I  met  Dona  Aura  at  the  Aguanueva,  accom- 
panied by  some  girls.  .  .  You  know  that  she  has  stuck  at  twenty 
five  years  of  age.  I  learned  afterwards  that  they  were  in  search 
of  a  gypsy,  a  real  or  a  fictitious  one,  who  could  tell  fortunes 
and  who,  as  a  proof  of  the  accuracy  of  her  forecasts,  used  to 
guess  some  happening  in  the  life  of  her  customers  ...  for 
example,  the  age.  Dona  Aura  made  pitiless  fun  of  the  gypsy, 
but  her  companions  forced  her  to  stretch  out  her  hand,  so 
that  she  could  examine  the  cabalistic  signs  and  wrinkles.  The 
gypsy  seized  the  hand,  but  instead  of  examining  it,  looked  at 
the  face  of  the  poetess.  '  In  order  to  find  out  your  age,'  said 
the  gypsy,  *  I  don't  need  to  look  at  the  wrinkles  in  your  hand. 
It  is  enough  to  look  at  those  in  your  face.' ': 

Roberto  opened  the  magazine  again. 

"  Here  are  the  works  of  Tubalcain,  the  editress'  own  hus- 
band. Shall  I  read?  *  Political  pamphlets  of  General  Cardoso,' 
for  sale  at  the  office  of  La  Mujer  Independiente.  *  My  diary 
of  the  campaign  in  Cuba,  by  General  T.  C.' — '  The  great  Gen- 
eral Ezeta,  Saviour  of  San  Salvador,  by  T.  C.' — '  My  banish- 
ment from  Central  America,  decreed  by  the  Jaguar-Panther 
Ezeta,  by  T.  C.'— *  The  truth  about  the  battle  of  Tazeltenango, 
the  narrative  of  an  international  revolutionist,  by  T.  C.' — *  My 
escape  along  the  Orinoco.  Fifteen  days  among  the  Gohajiva 
tribes,  by  General  T.  C..'  " 


MUSIC  AND  POLITICS  19 

"  How  is  that?  .  .  .  there  are  two  contradictory  pamphlets 
there  about  Ezeta,"  said  Doctor  Miranda,  stretching  his  hand 
towards  the  magazine. 

"  Those  two  pamphlets  are  a  whole  history.  It  is  very 
curious  how  Cardoso  became  acquainted  with  the  Dictator 
Ezeta,"  said  Roberto. 

"  How  did  that  happen?  "  asked  Dona  Teresa.  "  It  must  be 
rather  amusing." 

"  When  Cardoso,  after  having  been  defeated,  left  Colombia, 
fleeing  along  the  Orinoco,  he  first  became  acquainted  with  the 
Gohajiva  Indians  and  then  sought  Ezeta's  friendship  in  Sal- 
vador. Ezeta,  very  suspicious,  refused  to  see  him,  but  Cardoso, 
through  the  Dictator's  private  secretary,  had  two  pamphlets 
given  to  Ezeta.  They  were  two  entirely  opposite  biographies; 
in  one  of  them,  he  lauded  his  dictatorship  to  the  very  skies;  in 
the  other,  with  accurate  data  obtained  among  the  conspirators, 
he  painted  the  Dictator  as  a  monster.  One  was  entitled :  '  Bio- 
graphy of  the  great  General  Ezeta,  Savior  of  Salvador,'  and 
the  other:  '  Ezeta,  the  Jaguar-Panther  of  Central  America  '.  .  . 
The  Dictator  was  to  chose  and  buy  one  of  the  Manuscripts.  .  . 
Ezeta  selected  the  apotheosis,  and  sent  Cardoso  ten  thousand 
dollars.  ...  A  little  afterwards,  and  in  spite  of  the  praises  he 
had  written,  the  *  international  revolutionist '  joined  in  a  con- 
spiracy against  Ezeta,  was  discovered,  sentenced  to  death,  and 
he  finally  managed  to  escape  from  Salvador  disguised  as  a 
monk.  .  ." 

"  And  where  is  he  now?  "  asked  Dona  Ana  with  grave  con- 
cern. "  Is  he  going  to  start  a  revolution  ?  " 

"  He  left  Mexico  and  we  have  lost  track  of  him,"  answered 
General  Ronderos. 

"  And  are  these  men,  who  flatter  and  sell  their  pen  to  foreign 
petty  tyrants,  the  ones  that  are  coming  to  Colombia  to  start 
revolutions  in  the  name  of  Freedom?  "  asked  Doctor  Miranda. 

"  Here  is  another  copy,"  said  Roberto,  in  order  to  change 
again  a  subject  that  was  leading  them  back  to  the  idea  of  a 
civil  war.  "  Listen,  mother,  listen,  Aunt  Teresa  .  .  .  this  is  the 
great  review  of  the  poet  Mata:  La  Pagoda  de  Nietzsche.  .  . 
Shall  I  read?  ,  .  .  Prose  or  Poetry?  Ines,  you  choose.  .  .  All 
right,  let  it  be  poetry.  Now,  listen: 


20  PAX 

EGYPTIAN  NOSTALGIA 
{From  the  Volume,  Eternal  Orient) 

"  In  the  grayish  triumph  of  evanescent  colors, 

When  issues  forth  the  apotheosis  of  half  tints, 

I  wish  that  the  song  of  my  lyre  cease 

Beside  the  imperturbable  Sphinx  that  gazes,  gazes,  gazes. 

And  in  the  fiery  sandy  desert,   that  feigns  a  white   dream, 

To  be  the  eternal  sweetheart  of  the  silent  Sphinx. 

There  where  the  sun,  burnishing  its  necromantic  gold 

Scatters  the  scarlet  of  its  red  hemorrhage, 

Where  the  camels  raise  their  long  and  crooked  neck, 

Like  question  marks  in  a  great  bitter  poem; 

And  where  the  giraffes  raise  their  straight  necks, 

Like   exclamation  marks  in  a  perfect  distych; 

In   the   land  of  the   lotus,   where   sleeps  Rameses, 

Where  the  river  of  Mud  the  bristling  crops 

Waters,  and  where  its  slime  scatters  through  the  delta, 

With  the  ochers  and  yellows  of  its  magical  gamut; 

There,  where  the  palms  spread  their  fans 

And  the  sacred  Ibis  polishes  its  red  bill. 

To  die  where  the  palms  lose  themselves  in  the  distance 

Feigning,   in  the  oasis,  the  agony  of  Greenness; 

To  die  in  an  orgy,  in  an  impure  banquet, 

Like  those  in  which  the  hand  writes  upon  the  wall, 

And  at  the  clinking  of  the  glasses  and  at  the  sound  of  my  songs 

To   laugh   agonizingly   the   Mane-Thekel  Phares, 

There,  amid  the  euphonic  green  and  the  iniquitous  yellow, 

That  the  Sphinx  perceives  with  her  oblique  looks, 

Where  the   bald  Triumvir,   leaving  Rome  tra- 

Versed  the  seas  to  obtain  from   Cleopatra 

The  charming  aspic  of  her  ardent  kisses, 

Offered  in  lips  of  myrrhic  stars." 

"  Stop !  stop !  no  more  verses  of  that  kind.  No  more  decadent 
verses!  "  shouted  Dona  Teresa,  and  all  joined  in  noisy  protest. 

"  No  more  verses?  All  right!  Here  goes  some  prose  of  the 
same  brand,  but  without  any  guarantee  of  good  taste.  It  is 
entitled:  'The  Evangel  of  the  Blasphemer,'  signed  by  S.  C. 
Mata.  Listen :  '  The  Superman  was  traveling  in  a  desert  land 
without  sun  or  trees.  His  shadow  did  not  follow  him.  He 
followed  his  shadow.  He  was  crossing  a  bloody  chaos.  He 
arrived  at  the  gates  of  a  city,  the  city  of  men,  more  monkeyish 
than  the  very  monkeys  themselves.  And  the  Superman  said: 
"  I  bring  you  the  good  news.  I  have  killed  the  supraterrestrial ; 
I  have  slain  love;  I  have  killed  the  soul."  '  " 


MUSIC  AND  POLITICS  21 

"No,  no,  my  sqn!  "  exclaimed  Dona  Ana.  "Don't  read 
that.  .  .  How  fearfully  nonsensical!  " 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Dona  Teresa.     "  It  is  highly  amusing." 

"  '  Pay  no  attention  to  those  mendacious  hermits  who  speak 
to  you  of  the  supraterrestrial,  of  the  soul,  of  love.  There  is 
only  one  sovereign  power;  the  power  of  genius;  there  is  only 
one  love:  the  Dionysiac  love.' ': 

"  Enough !     That's  enough !  " 

But  Roberto,  who  knew  that  the  refutation  of  Nietzscheism 
supplied  an  inexhaustible  theme  to  Doctor  Miranda,  continued 
unshakably  in  his  reading,  giving  the  Doctor  a  sly  look. 

"'There  is  only  one  God:  the  Superman.  Don't  you  see 
the  corpses  of  the  three  great  Dead?  Does  not  the  stench  of 
the  divine  things  that  are  rotting  sicken  you  ?  Break  the  thongs 
of  the  Despotic  State.  Belong  not  to  duty  but  to  will.  Do  not 
imitate  the  humpy  camel  that  obeys  and  drinks  the  dirty  water 
of  the  cisterns  and  says:  "  I  must."  Rather  imitate  the  stub- 
born donkey  that  resists  his  master  and  goes  his  way  saying: 
"  I  will."  Rise,  search  the  zenith  of  will.  Rejoice:  I  bring 
you  the  glad  tiding :  there  are  no  longer  any  sinners,  for  I  have 
slain  Virtue.  There  are  no  deceivers  any  longer,  for  I  have 
killed  Truth.' 

"  '  Above  Good  and  Evil,  above  Truth  and  Falsehood,  above 
those  great  Dead  ones,  there  is  nothing  but  the  Superhuman 
Ego!'" 

Doctor  Miranda  gradually  turned  his  head  towards  Roberto. 
He  listened  intently  to  the  strident  phrases,  stopped  smiling 
and  with  a  nervous  movement  turned  in  his  fingers  his  snuff 
box,  which  flashed  in  the  light.  When  Roberto  finished  read- 
ing, Doctor  Miranda  exclaimed: 

"  It  should  not  be  allowed;  it  is  unpardonable  that  such 
things  should  be  published!  These  nonsensicalities,  Senor 
Bellegarde,  seem  the  concoctions  of  madmen,  yet  some  people 
are  trying  to  form  a  school  with  them." 

"  Ah !  in  France  we  have  the  same  things,"  said  Bellegarde, 
"  there  we  have  Verlaine.  .  ." 

"  '  The  Blasphemer's  Evangel!  '  .  .  .  isn't  that  what  it  says? 
.  .  .  What  does  Mata  know  about  evangels  or  God  ...  or 
even  of  German  or  about  Nietzsche?  Excuse  me  if  I  become 
a  little  excited.  I  can't  stand  this  native  Nietzschean  school, 


22  PAX 

these  decadent  clownish  imitators  of  an  author  they  do  not 
themselves  understand.  For  they  belong  to  those  very  people  of 
whom  Nietzsche  says  that  *  they  know  little  and  do  not  learn 
well '.  .  .  Nietzsche  was,  at  least  a  sincere  man,  though  led 
astray  by  pride.  He  had  the  style  of  grandiose  music,  some- 
thing like  a  reminiscence  of  his  former  master,  Wagner.  When 
Nietzsche  abandoned  his  master,  he  tore  a  magnificent  piece 
from  Wagner's  cloak." 

He  took  up  the  magazine,  raised  it  to  his  eyes,  then  threw 
it  on  the  table  disdainfully,  and  as  if  forgetting  himself  in  the 
vehemence  of  his  thoughts:  "A  great  deal  of  evil,"  he  said 
with  a  forceful  motion  of  his  neck  and  head,  "  a  great  deal 
of  evil  is  caused  by  these  things.  .  .  Though  ill  parodied  by 
our  decadents,  at  bottom,  Nietzsche's  ideas  are  disastrous.  .  . 
Anarchism  .  .  .  Atheism.  .  .  .  We  all  think  thus :  *  Since  I 
have  a  soul,  and  since  there  are  innumerable  souls,  there  must  be 
an  infinite  fountain  of  love  and  wisdom  whence  we  come  and 
whither  we  shall  return.'  But  Nietzsche  says:  '  If  there  were 
a  God,  how  could  I  tolerate  not  being  God  myself?  I,  therefore, 
declare  that  He  does  not  exist.'  You  can  see  that  that  is  the 
paroxysm  of  atheist  pride." 

Doctor  Miranda,  who  was  always  aroused  from  his  habitual 
moderation  by  the  subject  of  Nietzsche  and  decadentism,  paced 
about  the  room,  took  some  snuff,  approached  the  table  and  took 
up  the  magazine. 

"  But  I  make  a  distinction,"  he  said,  letting  go  the  magazine 
again.  "  I  make  a  distinction  between  Nietzsche  and  our 
Nietzscheists  .  .  .  the  latter  have  never  entertained  a  philoso- 
phic thought,  nor  even  a  serious  thought;  they  simply  admire 
an  idol  they  do  not  know.  .  .  .  They  seek  popularity,  advertis- 
ing, and  found  pagodas  merely  to  let  the  public  know  it.  Ah! 
Nietzsche  was  something  different.  Amidst  all  his  horrors 
and  all  his  pride,  he  at  least  had  the  quality  of  that  satanic  de- 
fect: contempt  for  popularity.  He  managed  to  isolate  himself, 
disdained  applause,  knew  the  intoxication  of  solitude  and  drank 
of  its  bitterness  to  the  very  dregs,  even  to  madness.  .  .  These 
Nietzscheists  inspire  us  ...  allow  me  to  say  this  among  our- 
selves .  .  .  inspire  us  with  contempt,  while  Nietzsche  inspires 
us  with  certain  surprise  mingled  with  compassion,  that  com- 
passion we  feel  for  magnanimous  characters  and  for  overwhelm- 


5f 

MUSIC  AND  POLITICS  23 

ing  misfortunes.  .  .  Our  pagodaists  have  neither  intelligence  nor 
artistic  form,  whereas  the  madness  of  the  German  atheist  is 
the  madness  of  an  artist;  it  has  a  certain  tragic  and  somber 
beauty  which  endows  him  with  the  splendor  of  a  symbol  and 
the  value  of  an  example.  His  life  was  a  philosophic  tragedy 
in  which  he  was  at  the  same  time  hero,  hangsman  and  victim; 
a  drama  in  which  thoughts  are  transformed  into  characters,  and 
at  times  into  specters  and  which  one  might  call  the  drama  of 
pride,  the  tragedy  of  a  mystic  atheist.  .  ." 

"  Granted,"  said  Roberto,  "  but  .  .  ."  he  added,  in  order 
to  bring  forth  the  ardent  protest  of  the  priest  and  to  seek  a 
topic  for  conversation  pleasing  to  Bellegarde,  "  but  there  is  one 
point  on  which  you,  yourself,  agree  with  Nietzsche." 

"I?"  asked  Doctor  Miranda  with  astonishment,  and  the 
index  and  the  thumb  with  which  he  was  taking  snuff  stood 
still  while  he  waited  for  a  reply. 

"  Yes,  you  .  .  .  Nietzsche  could  not  stand  Wagner  .  .  .  and 
neither  can  you.  .  ." 

"  Is  that  true,  Doctor?  "  asked  Bellegarde.  "  I  should  like 
to  have  your  own  eloquence  so  as  to  be  able  to  convert  you  to 
Wagner,  for  the  music  of  the  great  master  is  the  most  idealistic, 
the  one  that  speaks  best  to  the  mind.  He  was  always  pre- 
occupied with  deep  moral  questions,  and  his  unshakable  love 
for  religious  principles  earned  for  him  the  terrible  enmity  of 
Nietzsche.  A  redemption  is  the  motif  of  all  his  works  .  ." 

Bellegarde  stopped,  fearing  to  annoy  the  company  with  a 
tedious  subject,  but  Doctor  Miranda  invited  him  with  a  gesture 
to  continue,  expressing  the  pleasure  with  which  he  was  listen- 
ing to  his  remarks. 

f  *  There  is  not  one  Wagnerian  opera  where  someone  is  not 
redeemed.  .  .  In  Parsifal  and  in  the  Meister singers  it  is  a 
young  man;  in  Tannhduser  a  sinner,  and  The  Fying  Dutch- 
man, the  wandering  Jew.  .  ."  t 

Ines  attentively  followed  Bellegrade's  words,  and  at  times 
he  seemed  to  be  speaking  only  to  her. 

"  I  admire  in  Wagner,"  he  continued,  "  the  revolutionist." 
And  turning  to  Dona  smiling,  he  added:  "The  international 
revolutionist,  like  Cardoso." 

"  Oh!  my  dear  sir!  "  she  exclaimed  tones,  "  don't  admire  any 
revolutionists." 


24  PAX 

"  I  admire  the  revolutionists  in  art,  when  they  triumph.  .  ." 

"And  what  was  his  revolution  about?"  asked  the  priest. 

"  To  a  philosopher,  to  a  thinker  like  you,  the  explanation 
must  be  simple,  and  that's  why  I  think  it  an  easy  matter  to 
convert  you.  Wagner  was,  above  all,  a  thinker,  a  philosopher. 
The  Revolution?  .  .  ."  Bellegarde  looked  up  at  the  ceiling 
and  then  continued:  "He  managed  to  embody  in  the  living 
form  of  a  lyric  drama,  the  most  profound,  the  most  abstract 
thoughts.  All  his  works  are  dominated  by  the  conception  of  a 
philosopher." 

The  priest  meditated,  concentrating  his  thoughts.     Ines  said : 

"  To  be  frank  ...  I  don't  understand  you." 

"  Wagner  managed  to  bring  about  a  happy  union,"  con- 
tinued Bellegarde,  "  a  marriage  of  convenience  and  of  love, 
between  two  sweethearts  who  had  been  seeking  each  other  for 
a  long  time;  the  marriage  of  Drama  and  Music." 

"  A  well  matched  pair,"  said  Roberto.  "  Both  beautiful, 
both  of  royal  blood.  ...  I  understand  that  the  master  also  ef- 
fected a  revolution  in  the  orchestra  itself,"  he  added,  in  order 
to  encourage  Bellegarde. 

"  Oh!  he  is  a  symphonic  writer  without  a  peer;  he  subordin- 
ated the  human  voice  to  the  orchestra;  he  reserved  for  it  elo- 
quent phrases,  passoniate  impetus,  lyric  expansion.  No  one, 
besides,  knows  as  well  as  he  does,  the  effects  of  each  instrument. 
He  knew  which  instruments  strike  our  breast  with  a  dull  thud 
and  which  electrify  our  spinal  marrow.  .  .  At  times,  I  listen 
to  certain  passages,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  bows  of  the  violins 
do  not  glide  on  the  strings  but  on  my  very  nerves."  And  he 
continued,  addressing  the  ladies:  "We  will  go  to  the  prem- 
iere of  the  Opera  Company,  won't  we?  I  see  they  are  going  to 
produce  Werther,  by  Massenet,  a  composer  who  learned  from 
Wagner  the  new  role,  the  unwonted  importance  of  the  orchestra." 

"  All  that  may  be  so,"  interrupted  Doctor  Miranda,  playing 
with  his  snuff  box,  "  but  I  understand  that  Wagner  wrote  for 
artists  only,  and  that  his  works  cannot  be  understood  by  the 
common  people,  and  I  believe  that  works  of  art  ought  to  be 
understood  by  all." 

"  That  is  precisely  Wagner's  own  opinion.  He  maintains 
that  a  work  of  art  must  come  from  the  people  and  go  back 
to  them.  And,  in  order  to  convince  you,  Doctor,  let  me  add 


gflr 

MUSIC  AND  POLITICS  25 

that  Wagner  was  not  only  a  musician,  but  a  great  poet,  a 
Christian  poet.  The  innovator  who  has  shown  greater  respect, 
greater  love  for  art  .  .  .  maintains  with  admirable  valor,  in 
these  times  of  materialism  and  greed,  that  the  firmer  ground 
for  man  is  the  field  of  art,  and  that  art  alone  makes  life  bearable. 
That  is  my  own  conception  of~Tite  .  .  .  and  that  is  wKy  I 
respect  and  admire  in  Wagner  the  apostle  who,  with  the  power- 
ful elements  of  music,  gave  himself  up  to  the  redemption  of 
man  from  material  and  vulgar  interests,  elevating  him  to  the 
cult  of  the  intellect,  to  tha^t  which  the  human  mind  holds  as 
most  delicate  and  greatest."  * 

"  All  right,  I  go  ovej>tb  Wagner,"  said  Doctor  Miranda, 
pocketing  his  snuff  box. 

"  You  speak  like  an  ardent  admirer,"  said  Ines.  "  You 
must  know  him  thoroughly.  I  have  not  doubt  you  are  able 
to  interpret  him." 

Bellegarde  arose  without  hesitation,  while  Roberto,  showing 
him  the  piano,  said: 

"  There  is  the  wild  beast,  go  and  tame  it." 
~N^"  Of  Wagner,  I  can't  play  a  thing,  senorita,  nor  can  you 
judge  him  except  in  an  orchestra;  but  I  can  play  by  heart  some 
pieces  by  Beethoven,  Wagner's  real  teacher,"  said  Bellegarde. 

Seated  at  the  piano,  with  his  strong  and  long  hands  stretched 
over  the  keyboard  and  his  eyes  looking  up,  Bellegarde  struck 
a  chord,  then  stopped  and  turned  his  head  as  if  looking  for 
Ines. 

"  Although  I  am  a  bad  player  and  I  am  afraid  of  slandering 
Beethoven  with  a  false  interpretation,  I  am  going  to  play  the 
fourth  symphony  in  B  flat,  just  to  please  you.  .  .  It  is  so 
beautiful.  .  .  You  must  know  the  passionate  motif  of  the 
adagio;  the  melody  is  a  love  song  to  the  countess  of  Brunswick, 
the  immortal  beloved.  At  the  same  time  that  Beethoven  re- 
vealed his  love  through  his  music,  he  wrote  her  a  letter.  We 
have,  therefore,  a  double  expression,  in  words  and  notes,  of  the 
same  feeling  of  intense  passion." 

"  It  would  be  very  curious,"  observed  Roberto,  "  to  compare 
Beethoven's  prose  with  his  music, —  the  love  that  speaks  with 
the  love  that  sings." 

"  The  style  is  the  man,"  said  Bellegarde  raising  one  hand 
from  the  keyboard  and  letting  it  fall  on  his  knee.  "  The  style 


26  PAX 

of  his  letters  is  uneven,  broken  up;  but  the  other  style,  that  of 
his  music,  is  superior  to  life  and  reality.  After  the  human 
words,  Beethoven  sounded  a  divine  language.  .  .  ." 

He  turned  to  the  keyboard,  and  as  if  revealing  his  own  feel- 
ings, he  put  his  whole  mind  and  soul  into  the  musical  phrases 
and  began  the  piece.  In  the  middle  of  it,  as  he  was  commenc- 
ing the  adagio,  they  heard  outside  the  room  a  plaintive  howl, 
and  a  while  afterwards,  there  appeared  at  the  door  a  big  dog 
waving  its  tail  and  with  eyes  aflame. 

"  Be  quiet,  Maraton!  Get  out  of  here!  "  exclaimed  Roberto 
very  much  annoyed;  and  then,  softening  his  manner,  and  caress- 
ing the  animal,  he  said  in  a  low  voice:  "Are  you  suffering? 
...  Do  you  like  German  music?  Listen,  but  keep  quiet.  .  . 
All  right,  go  to  your  own  place  now,  go  back  to  the  garden." 

The  dog,  now  calmed,  crossed  the  gallery  and  descended  the 
steps.  Bellegarde,  at  Ines'  suggestion,  began  anew  the  inter- 
rupted passage  and  as  he  again  came  to  the  adagio  and  to  the 
same  chord,  they  heard  afar  a  heartrending  howl  from  Mara- 
ton, who  this  time  appeared  in  the  room  greatly  excited,  and 
without  paying  any  attention  to  Roberto,  stood  howling  at  the 
door  and  turned  round  and  round  panting  and  growling  with 
satisfaction  or  anger. 

"  Get  out!  "  shouted  Roberto  trying  to  chase  him  away. 

"  Is  he  suffering?  "  asked  Ines. 

"  Is  he  enjoying  himself?  "  queried  Doctor  Miranda. 

Dona  Ana  seemed  sorry;  Dona  Teresa  laughed. 

A  servant  appeared,  bringing  two  newspapers  that  had  just 
arrived. 

"  It  is  La  Integridad!  "  exclaimed  Roberto,  somewhat  vexed. 
"  Sanchez  Mendez's  newspaper.  .  ." 

On  hearing  that  name,  General  Ronderos,  who  had  been  talk- 

Cwith  the  ladies,  became  preoccupied  and  sad. 
*  Sanchez  Mendez,"  he  said  "  was  my  best  friend  ten  years 
_  »,  and  the  worst  enemy  of  the  revolutionary  party,  who  called 
him  then  the  Great  Inquisitor  .  .  .  and  now  he  has  joined  them 
against  me.     His  voice  has  all  the  prestige  of  great  services 
rendered,  of  solid  culture  and  of  a  brilliant  pen;  but  spite  has 
•  converted  him  into  an  agitator,  a  destroyer  of  his  own  work, 
a  tool  in  the  hands  of  Landaburo." 


MUSIC  AND  POLITICS  27 

"  There  is  something  here  where  my  name  is  mentioned," 
said  Roberto,  and  he  began  to  read  La  Integridad. 

"  '  The  curtain  is  about  to  rise  upon  the  last  act  in  the 
comedy  of  the  elections! 

"  *  The  sleight-of-hand  tricks  and  feats  of  jugglery  will  sur- 
pass all  expectations!  The  absolutists,  who  can  never  be  seen 
except  in  public  offices  and  in  the  offices  of  contractors,  will 
appear  in  an  apalling  majority  over  the  two  great  political 
parties  of  the  integros  and  the  revaluation. 

"  *  We  shall  see,  therefore,  elected  to  office,  through  the  impo- 
sition of  political  trickery,  Roberto  Avila  and  Alejandro  Borja 
and  others  who  have  no  reasonable  claim  save  their  abject  sub- 
mission to  the  powers  that  be,  and  whose  only  duty  will  be  to 
defend  or  abet,  at  least,  the  exploiters  of  the  Treasury.  On 
the  other  hand,  General  Floro  Landaburo,  who  has  been  nom- 
inated as  a  candidate  for  representative  by  republicans  of  many 
Departments,  will  be  defeated. 

"  *  The  enthusiastic  receptions  with  which  this  illustrious 
citizen  has  met  on  his  way  through  the  different  towns,  are, 
above  all,  a  protest  against  the  vise-like  machine  that  is  squeez- 
ing the  life  out  of  our  country. 

"  '  His  candidacy  honors  the  country,  because  General  Landa- 
buro has  always  fought  against  the  abuses  of  the  Executive, 
because  he  is  not  afraid  of  the  liberty  of  his  enemies,  because 
he  is  a  respecter  of  property. 

"  *  Such  will  be  the  result  of  the  struggle,  in  uneven  ground, 
between  the  absolutists,  whose  kernel  is  the  industrial  element 
and  whose  only  strength  is  the  abuse  of  power,  and  the  two 
great  parties,  united  by  a  single  aspiration  and  who  form  nine 
tenths  of  the  population:  the  party  of  the  revaluation  and  the 
party  of  the  integros. 

"  *  Vain  will  the  efforts  of  Minister  Ronderos  prove  to  bring 
us  back  to  the  Constitutional  party,  from  which  we  are  separated, 
by  proclaiming  a  union  ...  a  mean  word  that  does  not  signify 
a  coalition  for  the  furtherance  of  welfare,  but  a  call  for  the 
formation  of  a  gang  of  grafters. 

"  *  The  only  possible  and  logical  union  is  that  of  the  republi- 
cans supporting  the  antiabsolutist  program  inscribed  in  the 
standard  of  the  integros.  .  '  " 


28  PAX 

Dona  Ana,  who  was  carefully  listening  to  the  reading,  ex- 
pressed by  her  sorrowful  attitude  the  displeasure  which  the 
attacks  on  General  Ronderos,  and  especially  those  on  her  son, 
caused  her. 

Roberto  noticed  this;  he  stopped  reading  and  opened  another 
paper  —  a  very  small  sheet  —  which  also  had  an  article  marked 
on  the  margin  with  red  pencil. 

They  all  exclaimed  with  alarm: 

"Ah!  Is  it  El  Escorpion?  ...  no!  no!  ...  goodness 
sake!  .  .  .  don't  read  that!  .  .  ." 

"  Just  let  me  read  this  advertisement,"  said  Roberto. 

"  WAR  UPON  THIEVES  " 

In  order  that  the  country  may  learn  how  some  individuals 
filch  the  public  treasury,  we  will  receive  all  kinds  of  denuncia- 
tions in  our  offices,  from  3  to  4  p.  m.,  every  day  except  holidays. 
Strict  secrecy  guaranteed.  Price:  from  $50  to  $200,  according 
to  the  importance  of  the  denunciation. 

"  And  this  poem,"  added  Roberto,  "  which  is  against  you, 
General  Ronderos,  is  the  explanation  of  the  cartoon  —  which 
I  cannot  show  to  the  ladies  —  and  of  why  El  Escorpion  has 
been  sent  here. 

"  El  padre  Adan  comio  en  cueros 
La  manzana  solamente; 
Si  hubiera  sido  Ronderos 
Se  traga  hasta  la  serpiente." 

(Starknaked  father  Adam  ate  the  apple  only;  if  he  had  been  Ronderos, 
he  would  have  swallowed  the  serpent  as  well.) 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  CONSULTING  ENGINEER 

COUNT  BELLEGARDE  crossed  the  square  and  went  over  to  the 
Treasury  in  order  to  keep  the  appointment  which  General  Rond- 
eros had  made  with  him  the  previous  night  at  Dofia  Teresa's 
house.  He  crossed  the  portico  of  the  Government  Palace  where 
the  afternoon  sun  shone  brightly  and  passed  through  the  row 


THE  CONSULTING  ENGINEER  29 

of  columns  that  cast  their  shadow  on  the  pavement  of  polished 
bricks.  Coming  from  the  heated  air  of  the  square,  he  felt  the 
cool  atmosphere  of  the  building  as  he  started  up  the  stairs. 
As  he  ascended,  he  saw  people  going  up  and  down  with  sheaves 
of  papers  under  their  arms.  Once  in  the  upper  floor,  he  heard 
through  one  of  the  windows  the  bells  of  the  street  cars,  the 
hammering  of  the  roadmenders  breaking  stones  and  the  rumbling 
of  carriages.  He  went  over  to  the  window  and  took  a  look 
at  the  city  that  stretched  in  front  of  him  like  a  panorama.  He 
saw  the  facade  of  the  Cathedral,  bathed  in  the  sun,  the  needle 
of  a  pine  tree,  the  roofs,  the  smoke  of  a  chimney,  and  away  in 
the  distance,  the  green  mass  of  the  mountains  and  a  stretch  of 
blue  firmament.  His  eyes,  the  experienced  eyes  of  a  traveler, 
could  perceive  certain  traits  that  impart  a  certain  physiognomy 
and  character  to  things.  He  began  to  hunt  for  the  office  of 
the  Treasury.  Starting  along  a  corridor  through  which  blew 
an  icy  blast,  he  met  several  groups,  clerks  who  went  about  with- 
out hats,  as  if  they  were  in  their  own  homes,  with  their  hands 
in  their  pockets  and  their  cigarettes  in  their  mouths,  policemen 
with  notes  and  books,  solicitants  with  an  air  of  ennui  and  ex- 
pectation. At  the  end  of  the  corridor,  an  electric  light  that  had 
been  left  lit,  shone  with  ghastly  pallor  in  the  brightness  of  the 
afternoon.  Bellegarde  arrived  at  the  end  of  the  corridor  and 
inquired : 

"  Where  can  I  see  the  Minister?  " 

"Here,  on  the  left." 

He  walked  on,  met  another  corridor,  hesitated  and  repeated 
his  question. 

"  There,  at  the  end,"  answered  an  official  who  was  carrying 
a  despatch. 

At  the  end  of  the  corridor,  behind  a  wooden  railing,  he  saw 
an  usher  in  his  office :  a  table,  a  copying  press  and  a  dilapidated 
chair. 

"May  I  see  the  Minister?" 

"  He  won't  receive  any  one  just  now,  but  you  may  speak  to  the 
undersecretary,  Docton  Alcon,"  answered  the  usher  as  he  strug- 
gled with  the  lever  of  the  press. 

From  the  usher's  office,  one  could  see  a  series  of  chambers 
at  the  end  of  which  was  the  Minister's  office.  Bellegarde 
crossed  these  chambers  between  rows  of  clerks  bent  over  their 


30  PAX 

desks.  He  approached  and  questioned  a  young  man  who  was 
deeply  absorbed  in  the  reading  of  a  book.  The  young  man 
looked  at  him  with  displeasure  for  a  moment,  then  leaned  over 
the  book  again  to  continue  his  reading.  .  .  He  was  reading: 
"  He  had  crossed  the  street  and  was  turning  round  and  round 
that  still,  dumb  coupe  of  the  Baronness,  with  its  driver  rigidly 
sitting  on  the  box.  .  ." 

Bellegarde  dared  to  ask  again:  "  May  I  see  the  under- 
secretary? " 

"  Walk  in,"  answered  the  clerk,  who  bent  his  head  down 
again  and  continued  to  read  L' Argent,  by  Zola  .  .  .  "  rigidly 
sitting  on  the  box.  A  white  hand  lowered  the  window  of  the 
coupe;  he  saluted  and  gallantly  approached  the  Baronness  de 
Sandorff.  '  Well,  M,.  Saccard,'  asked  the  Baronness,  '  shall  we 
play  a  game  of.  .  .'  " 

"  Is  it  in  the  next  chamber?  "  asked  Bellegarde. 

The  young  man  answered  "  Yes  "  with  a  single  movement  of 
his  head,  so  as  not  to  miss  the  dialogue  between  the  banker 
Saccard  and  the  Baronness  de  Sandorff. 

In  the  next  chamber,  Bellegarde  approached  the  table  of  an 
old  clerk,  Don  Cosme  Oramas,  who  lowered  his  head  and  looked 
at  him  smiling  over  his  eyeglasses. 

"May  I  see  the  Minister?  He  asked  me  to  call  on  him 
at  half  past  two." 

"Come  right  in;  I  believe  he  is  receiving  visitors  to-day," 
politely  answered  Don  Cosme,  with  that  smile  he  had  bestowed 
for  half  a  century  upon  the  "  intimates  "  who  called  on  the 
Minister. 

When  Bellegarde  walked  away  from  him,  the  clerk  exclaimed 
with  alarm : 

"  Half  past  two?  It  is  time  for  my  milk!  "  and  he  went  over 
to  some  shelves  where,  hidden  by  sheaves  of  documents,  there 
was  a  cup  surrounded  by  small  sponge-cakes.  Two  employees, 
at  neighboring  tables,  were  deeply  engrossed  in  their  tasks;  one 
of  them  was  drawing  on  paper  with  the  letter  head  of  the 
Treasury  a  monogram  of  his  own  initials  intertwined  with 
those  of  his  sweetheart;  the  other  was  neatly  manicuring  his 
nails  with  a  penknife. 

In  the  adjoining  chamber,  a  green  room  with  frescoes  on  the 
ceiling,  sat  Doctor  Alcon  bent  over  a  map  which  he  was  con- 


THE  CONSULTING  ENGINEER  31 

suiting  at  a  table  covered  with  books  and  surrounded  by  chairs 
loaded  with  papers. 

The  light  filtered  through  two  green  damask  curtains  in  a 
high  window,  shining  in  the  varnish  of  the  maps  and  in  the 
molding  of  the  shelves,  and  in  one  of  the  corners  it  illuminated 
with  livid  rays  the  bald  head  of  Doctor  Alcon. 

The  undersecretary  drew  close  to  his  eyes  the  visiting  card 
the  Count  handed  him.  With  severe  mien,  he  read:  "  Cte. 
DAX  BELLEGARDE  —  Issy-sur  Seine  —  B.  Hausmann, 
144.",  then,  relaxing  his  features,  blushing  with  feigned  hu- 
mility, he  stood  up  to  greet  the  Count,  coughed  and  pointed  to 
a  closed  door. 

"  The  Minister,"  he  said,  "  has  given  me  orders  to  show 
you  in  immediately.  He  has  been  busy  all  morning  with  a 
certain  matter.  Doctor  Karlonoff,  consulting  engineer  to  the 
Treasury,  is  now  conferring  with  him  upon  that  same  matter. 
They  have  been  closeted  for  three  solid  hours.  Please  follow 
me." 

He  opened  the  door,  pushed  his  head  into  the  next  room 
and  drew  back  again. 

"  Doctor  Karlonoff  has  just  left  by  the  other  door.  His  Ex- 
cellency is  now  alone.  You  may  go  in,"  .  .  .  and  bowing  to  the 
Count,  he  let  him  pass,  returned  to  his  desk  and  again  bent 
his  ivory  bald  patch  over  the  papers  on  the  desk. 

Bellegarde,  as  he  sat  in  front  of  him,  found  General  Rond- 
eros  tired  out,  with  an  expression  of  exhaustion,  as  if  crushed 
by  some  gigantic  task.  Doctor  Karlonoff  had  been  with  him 
during  three  solid  hours,  explaining  the  difficulties  and  dangers 
in  canalizing  the  Magdalena  River.  The  Minister  was  dis- 
heartened, hesitating,  sighing  at  times.  He  was  dizzy  with 
figures  and  names.  He  wished  Bellegarde  to  restore  to  him 
his  faith;  he  desired  him  to  demonstrate  to  him  that  the  project 
was  feasable.  The  Count  plunged  directly  into  the  matter. 
Although  he  had  submitted  his  estimates  and  plans,  he  thought 
it  proper  to  go  fully  into  some  details  of  the  scheme  that  had 
brought  him  to  Colombia;  namely:  the  canalization  and  the 
colonization.  He  proposed  to  canalize  the  main  artery  of  the 
country,  the  Magdalena,  rendering  it  navigable  to  transatlantic 
steamers;  to  drain  its  banks  and  clear  them  of  its  immense 
forests;  to  cut  and  utilize  the  useful  timber;  to  exploit  the  woods 


32  PAX 

of  rubber  trees;  to  colonize  these  immense  regions.  .  .  The 
"  group  "  of  financiers,  "  his  group,"  the  Franco-Belgian  com- 
pany, in  view  of  the  report  submitted  by  their  engineers,  were 
willing  to  furnish  the  necessary  capital  and  had  all  the  ma- 
chinery ready.  In  a  few  days,  the  enterprise  would  be  placed 
on  the  Stock  Exchanges  of  Paris  and  Brussels.  "  His  group  " 
was  only  waiting  for  a  cable. 

Very  methodically,  the  Count  divided  his  exposition  into 
four  parts.  He  first  showed  the  disadvantages  of  the  Magda- 
lena  in  its  present  condition;  then  he  made  a  scientific  study 
of  its  canalization;  afterwards  he  expounded  the  advantage  of 
the  enterprise,  and,  finally,  he  spoke  of  the  requirements  of 
his  company,  "  his  group." 

"  The  Magdalena  is  a  muddy  river,"  he  said,  while  General 
Ronderos,  disheartened  by  Karlonoff,  was  gradually  recovering 
his  faith,  "  with  sand  in  a  state  of  suspension;  one  of  the  most 
crooked,  capricious  and  undisciplined  that  I  have  studied  in 
America.  Sometimes  sluggish  and  almost  dry,  other  times 
violent  and  in  full  flood,  it  prevents  navigation  with  its  shifting 
sand  bars  or  renders  it  dangerous  with  its  rapid  current.  It 
is  either  too  poor  or  too  rich.  Of  earth  and  sand  alone,  it 
washes  away  more  than  six  million  cubic  meters,  according 
to  the  data  I  have  obtained  from  my  two  assistant  engineers. 
This  prodigious  mass  of  debris  torn  from  its  banks,  flows 
towards  the  sea,  is  deposited  at  certain  intervals  and  covers  the 
bottom  of  the  stream,  shaping  and  reshaping,  at  each  flood,  the 
line  of  the  stream,  the  talweg,  the  depth  and  the  general 
character  of  the  river.  What  characterizes  the  Magdalena  is 
its  enormous  width.  .  .  Mister  Minister,  kindly  look  at  this 
drawing  the  accuracy  of  which  I  can  garantee  absolutely  .  .  . 
look  at  these  recurring  curves  and  at  this  series  of  islands  which 
it  forms  in  its  course." 

He  put  on  his  monocle,  stooped  over  a  map  which  he  had 
spread  on  the  table,  pointed  to  several  black  dots  along  a  blue 
curve  and  then,  standing  up  again,  he  added: 

"  An  island  ought  to  be  an  exception  in  a  well-trained  river; 
but  here,  islands  are  the  rule  and  the  river,  always  divided 
into  two  or  three  arms,  has  a  very  small  draught." 

He  stood  up  erect,  and  becoming  somewhat  heated,  but  always 
with  his  well  trained  and  harmonious  voice,  he  went  fully  into 


THE  CONSULTING  ENGINEER  33 

an  explanation  of  how  the  evil  should  be  corrected  and  how  the 
river  could  be  rendered  navigable  to  steamers  of  deep  draught. 
He  summarized  what  he  had  expounded  in  his  two  reports 
submitted  to  the  Treasury;  the  scheme  was  not  impracticable; 
on  the  contrary,  he  thought  it  quite  easy  provided  the  govern- 
ment supported  "  his  group."  The  dredgers,  far  too  slow,  were 
not  the  principal  factor.  The  whole  system  consisted,  parti- 
cularly, in  utilizing  the  stream  itself,  narrowing  it  down  by 
means  of  skew  jetties  and  forcing  it  towards  the  center,  where 
it  would  deepen  its  own  bottom.  The  water,  he  went  on,  on 
narrowing  down  licks  the  bed  of  the  stream,  sweeps  the  banks, 
straightens  the  talweg  and  carries  the  sand  to  the  ocean.  Some- 
times the  sand,  which  was  the  cause  of  all  the  trouble,  would 
come  in  very  useful,  for  it  could  be  employed  in  filling  the 
marshes  and  swamps  along  the  banks,  thus  raising  them  and 
converting  them  into  fertile  and  healthy  fields.  Why  did  the 
Minister  hesitate?  Nothing  was  simpler,  nothing  more  clear, 
nothing  so  easy;  that  was  how  "  his  group  "  had  canalized  the 
Mississippi  and  straightened  the  course  of  several  rivers  in 
Argentina.  At  any  point,  according  to  a  map  which  they,  had 
there  on  a  chair,  and  which  had  been  drawn  right  on  the  spot, 
they  could  obtain  a  depth  of  seven  meters,  and  that  was  enough 
for  any  sea-going  steamer. 

"  The  company,  Mister  Minister,  does  not  require  any  pe- 
cuniary help  of  any  kind  or  in  any  shape;  we  only  ask  for  a 
short  lease  and  for  some  tracts  of  idle  land.  The  government 
will  be  a  shareholder  in  the  company,  and  as  a  guarantee  that 
work  will  begin  as  soon  as  the  contract  is  signed,  I  will  de- 
posit one  million  francs  in  the  Treasury.  I  confidently  ex- 
pect that  the  job  will  be  finished  within  five  years.  Really, 
Mister  Minister,  all  we  ask  of  the  government  is  security  and 
peace. 

^r-  "  I  trust  to  the  good  sense  of  the  country.  The  period  of 
madness,  the  attempts  at  suicide  have  all  passed.  .  .  .  The 
agitators,  Landaburo,  Sanchez  Mendez  .  .  .  are  already  too 
impotent  to  launch  the  country  into  the  adventure  of  war.  I 

/  also  trust  in  God,  Count." 

Ronderos,  whose  mind  fluctuated  between  the  doubts  left 
in  it  by  Karlonoff  and  the  faith  inspired  by  the  Count's  ex- 
planations, confessed  himself  incompetent  to  judge  the  matter; 


34 

he  wished  to  arrive  at  a  Mti  -.ohuum,  but  he 

it   desirable  that   the  Count   and    Karlonoti   should    have   au   in 
•ul  explain  then    respective  plans  to  each  other.      He 
pushed   an   electric    bell    and    sent    tor    IVvtor    Karlonotf.      The 
Count  explained  that   he  had  no  objections   whatever   to   A 

ih  the  "  consulting  engineer,"  but  he  had  asked  him- 
self   the    question,    in    his   own    mind,    who   this    savant    with    a 
R       .tan    or    German    name    might    be    that    wa>    disci: 
criticizing  the  plans  ot  eanali^ation  drawn  bv  the  assistant  on 
mneeis    and    ehevked    by    lielle^aide    himself    so    eaiofullv    and 
alter    sueh    laborious    studu  \    ,.ip    was    heard    at 

and  there  appeared  the  bald  head  and  the  artituial  smile  of  the 
undersecretary. 

"  Dov  tor  Karlonoff  is  here  awaitm  . 
said    Doctor   ALon. 

I'll  >!>ened.     The   Tount,    expevtiug   to   behold    some 

Russian    savant,    tall,    of    wide    forehead,    tan    hair    and    ^rave 
appearau.  'prised  to  see  aiming  into  the  room 

a  dapper  little  man,  swarthv,  of  re->  and  an  enormous 

nose  that  appeared  larger  because  ot  his  Lu  k  of  teeth  and  ill 
hidden  bv  his  mustaehe.  Ho  walked  in,  saluted  at  a  distattCt» 
•and  with  a  smile  of  self  assurance  and  malue,  advanced  with 
minced  steps,  went  over  to  >everal  tables,  turned  over  papers 
and  books,  looked  at  several  maps  and  finally,  with  a  defiant 
•.nd  a  shake  of  the  head,  stood  in  front  of  the  Count.  The 
General  introduced  them  to  each  01 

•vie,    I  \\lor    v  --.uloval    \ 

bogal,  C'aptain  in  the  Bridges  and  Highways  corps." 

\  .  the  Count  asked  with  a  look  whether  the  person  introduced 
•.'.ie  real  Karlonoff,  consulting  engineer,  the  latter  hinisoU 
explained  that  the  name  "  UvKtor  karloiiotl  "  wa>  a  pseudonym, 
a  nom  de  $uerrt  with  which  ho  used  to  sign  his  political  writings, 
his  historical  essays,  his  geographical  pamphlets,  his  astronom- 
ical observations,  his  philosophic  lectures,  his  military  tu- 
tus •  some  ot  which,"  ho  added  with  a  smile,  "had 
berii  stolon  from  him  by  Admiral  Jurien  ue  .ore  for  a 

•v   ballistics/' 

There  was  brief  hush,  a  moment  of  expectation,  as  when  two 

->s  swords.      The  Minister  wont  over 

to  hi  -     ind    sat    down,    indicating    to    Bellegarde    a    large 


THE  CONSULTING  ENGINEER  35 

leather-lined  arm  chair  on  his  right.  The  Count,  grave  and 
circumspect,  waited  for  the  minister  to  broach  the  subject, 
Karlonoff  dragged  a  chair  and  sat  down  in  front  of  them, 
crossing  his  hands  over  his  stick.  He  desired  to  start  the  dis- 
cussion right  away  and  he  began  by  remarking  that  there  were 
several  errors  in  the  canalization  plan,  that  the  plats  of  the 
river  had  been  drawn  by  inexperienced  engineers,  that.  .  .  . 
liut  the  General,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  asked  him  to  be 
silent,  and  he  expressed  his  wish  that  the  Count  should  ex- 
pound his  theories  first.  The  latter  unfolded  his  idea  very 
slowly,  very  plainly,  seeking  the  clearest  terms,  avoiding  any- 
thing that  might  appear  dogmatic,  always  with  noble  and 
sober  elegance. 

"The  advantages?  ...  I  have  already  explained  them  in 
complete  sketches  which  you  have  there,  Mister  Minister,"  he 
said  pointing  to  a  large  portfolio  with  blue  covers.  "  But,  in 
order  to  make  absolutely  sure,  I  take  the  liberty  of  referring 
you  to  our  experience  in  other  countries.  I  will  call  your  at- 
tention to  the  data  my  group  has  about  the  Seine,  for  instance, 
which  we  are  at  present  canalizing  so  as  to  make  Paris  a  sea 
port,  as  I  have  already  mentioned.  It  is  a  simple  truth  that  the 
most  economic  transportation  is  by  means  of  waterways.  I  can 
translate  this  observation  into  figures;  I  can  remember  them 
because  I  was  a  member  of  the  commission  that  studied  the 
Seine  and  because  I  submitted  a  report  to  the  Committee  on 
II ridges  and  Roads.  There  the  average  rate  is  one  tenth  of  a 
centime  —  I  am  speaking  of  francs  —  per  ton  per  kilometer; 
but  let  us  increase  this  rate;  let  us  raise  it  to  two  centimes. 
For  the  185  kilometer  the  Seine  will  have,  when  it  is  canalized, 
and  deepened  from  Rouen  to  Paris,  we  will  have  37  centimes, 
that  is  to  say,  370  francs,  Senor  Minister,  for  a  vessel  of  1000 
tons.  We  needn't  compare  this  rate  with  what  it  would  cost 
to  carry  those  one  thousand  tons  by  road,  and  which  would 
have  been  ...  let  me  think  ...  I  don't  believe  my  memory 
fails  me  ...  it  would  have  cost  45,000  francs.  .  .  .  Let  us 
compare  the  cost  by  river  with  the  cost  by  rail.  In  the  railroads 
of  our  country,  the  average  freight  rate  is  7  centimes,  and  ap- 
plying this  figure  to  the  transportation  of  1000  tons  in  a  dis- 
tance of  156  kilometers,  we  have  ...  let  me  think,  Senor 
Minister  ...  I  remember  .  .  .  this  is  my  business  ...  we 


36  PAX 

have  (and  he  wiped  his  monocle  to  help  clear  his  thought) 
we  have  a  figure  of  4080  francs,  which  must  be  increased  by 
750  francs  for  loading  the  cars,  giving  us  a  total  cost  of  4830 
francs.  .  ." 

Karlonoff,  surprised  for  a  moment  by  the  precision  and  the 
memory  of  the  contractor,  decided  not  to  be  left  behind,  and  he 
tried  to  recall  some  figures  which,  in  order  to  display  some 
erudition,  he  had  hurriedly  read  in  the  word  CANAL  in  the 
"  Germanic  Cyclopedia,"  and  certain  old  books  from  which 
he  frequently  borrowed  information  for  his  journalistic  lucu- 
brations. 

"  Here  we  have  in  front  of  us,"  continued  the  Count,  "  two 
figures:  370  francs  and  4850  francs,  which  represent,  respec- 
tively, the  cost  of  transportation  by  two  different  means:  vessel 
and  railroad.  .  .  .  You  can  easily  see,  Senor  Minister,  the 
enormous  advantages  of  canalization  and  transportation  by 
water,  even  when  we  have,  as  in  France,  the  railroad  running 
along  the  banks  of  the  river." 

"  There  is  no  doubt  about  it!  "  exclaimed  General  Ronderos, 
recovering  his  enthusiasm,  his  eyes  shining  brightly.  "  There 
is  no  doubt  about  it.  And  if  those  advantages  are  so  great  in 
France,  they  will  be  even  greater  here  where  our  railroads, 
which  are  few  and  deficient,  charge  a  freight  rate  twice  as  high 
as  in  Europe." 

r  "  Cheap  transportation  increases  intercourse,"  added  the 
Count,  "  and  this  intercourse,  quick  and  economic,  through 
the  main  artery  of  the  country,  means  life,  civilization.  It  is 
the  only  possible  and  certain  means  of  progress  for  this  country, 
destined  as  it  is  to  a  great  development.  You  are  right,  dear 
Minister;  railroads  in  this  country  are  difficult  and  costly.  .  .  . 
In  the  river  we  have  a  ready-made  way;  we  need  only  to  perfect 
it,  to  make  it  economical  and  to  place  it  in  such  condition  that 
large  steamers,  loaded  with  colonists  who  are  to  people  its 
banks,  may  reach  these  rich  forests  and  that  immense  and  fertile 
valley  which  constitutes  the  heart  of  the  republic.  How  about 
sanitary  conditions?  .  .  .  The  bed  of  the  river  once  deepened, 
and  with  some  supplementary  works,  there  will  be  no  more 
floods;  the  marshes  will  dry  up,  the  whole  region  will  be  im- 
proved and  will  become  as  healthy  as  that  of  the  Mississippi, 


THE  CONSULTING  ENGINEER  37 

which  before  'my  group  '  took  it  in  hand  was  deadly;  now  it 
has  an  air  as  pure  as  the  Bois  de  Boulogne." 

General  Ronderos,  who  loved  Colombia  deeply,  felt  his 
heart  beating  as  when  he  was  twenty  years  old;  his  eyes  shone 
brightly;  a  smile  of  hope,  of  joy,  bristled  up  his  grayish 
mustache,  disclosing  his  worn  and  even  teeth.  .  .  .  Yes,  he 
would  carry  out  the  work,  that  tremendous  enterprise  of  redemp- 
tion, and  he  thought  that  even  if  there  were  obstacles  to  sur- 
mount, he  would  spare  no  sacrifices  in  order  to  bring  to  a  suc- 
cessful completion  a  project  that  was  to  transform  Colombia. 
Ah!  to  establish  peace  on  the  solid  foundation  of  prosperity, 
wealth,  freedom  and  general  happiness  .  .  .  after  having  strug- 
gled with  corrupt  principles,  after  having  struggled  with  pesti- 
lential swamps  .  .  .  what  happiness!  what  glory!  Besides, 
he  thought,  the  public  Treasury  would  not  need  to  spend  any 
money;  the  company  asked  only  for  lands  for  the  colonists  and 
the  right  of  way  for  ships  once  the  river  had  been  canalized. 
.  .  .  Yes,  he  would  end  his  days  in  peace,  he  would  die  happy 
if  he  succeeded  in  linking  his  name  to  the  enterprise,  if  he 
even  managed  to  see  the  bginning  of  that  colonization,  the 
river  with  its  large  steamers,  teeming  life  on  its  banks,  the 
forests  cleared  —  wealth,  wellbeing,  colonists  by  the  million 
enriching  those  immense  tracts  of  land,  banishing  war  forever, 
civilizing  the  country, —  that  unfortunate  country  which  would 
become  opulent,  strong,  mighty  and  glorious. 

It  was  now  Karlonoff ' s  turn  to  explain  his  ideas.  During  his 
tiresome  monologue,  he  was  prodigal  with  gestures  and  attitudes. 
Bending  his  head,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  he  moved  the 
point  of  his  foot;  he  stood  erect,  took  one  hand  out  of  his  pocket, 
tapped  on  the  table  with  his  index  finger,  then  scratched  the  tip 
of  his  nose  with  it.  He  meditated  a  while,  took  out  the  other 
hand.  When  he  became  heated,  he  spoke  in  a  shrill  voice.  He 
opened  his  arms,  gesticulated  with  his  head,  with  his  whole 
body.  He  opined  that  in  Colombia,  as  had  been  done  in  France 
when  Labadria,  Manier,  Roals,  Gourdon  and  four  more  others 
thought  of  canalizing  the  Seine,  the  naval  officers  and  the  ship- 
builders should  be  consulted  first. 

Bellegarde  arched  his  brows  in  surprise;  he  asked  if  there 
were  in  Colombia  any  naval  officers  and  shipbuilders. 


38  PAX 

"  There  aren't  any,"  answered  Karlonoff  imperturbably,  "  but 
they  ought  to  be  appointed  ad  hoc.  I,  as  a  Captain  in  the 
Bridges  and  Fosses  corps,  would  willingly  consent  to  forming 
part  of  such  a  committee  and  even  to  becoming  its  president." 

And  without  paying  any  attention  to  the  surprise  of  the  Count, 
without  stopping  to  take  breath,  without  a  pause,  for  fear  that 
he  might  be  interrupted,  that  his  fingers  might  be  criticized,  he 
resolutely  launched  into  his  scheme,  in  interminable,  obscure 
phrases,  piling  up  abstruse  technical  terms,  going  over  every 
country,  jumping  from  one  authority  to  another,  from  one 
century  to  another.  Talk  about  the  Seine  canal?  Ah!  they 
should  not  forget  what  the  Emperor  Julian  had  written  about 
the  slope  of  the  Seine  in  his  Misojogon;  the  woods  and  marshes 
of  that  remote  age  covered  almost  entirely  the  emplacement  of 
Paris  in  a  surface  of  43,665  square  kilometers  .  .  .  according  to 
the  corrections  made  from  Bogota  by  Karlonoff  himself.  ...  If 
at  that  time  it  rained  less  than  now,  the  mean  flow  of  the  Seine,  at 
Paris,  must  have  oscillated  between  30  and  365  cubic  meters  per 
second,  whereas  to-day,  after  eighteen  centuries,  in  the  great 
floods,  it  is  2500  cubic  meters,  which  shows  palpably  that  it  was 
necessary  to  raise  the  bottom  of  the  river  to  a  level  of  7  meters 
and  80  centimeters  and  render  it  navigable,  like  the  North- 
American  lakes  described  by  Reclus,  pages  1235  to  1239,  which 
lakes  are  navigated  at  a  cost  of  one  twentieth  of  a  centime  by 
2550  to  3825-ton  steamers  infinitely  superior  to  the  boats  that 
sailed  the  Nile,  in  the  time  of  Rameses  II,  those  happy  times 
when  the  Egyptians  scientifically  solved  the  intricate  problem  of 
river-side  colonization,  for  they  built  their  houses  outside  the 
reach  of  the  floods,  by  means  of  high  stockades,  which  stock- 
ades were  initiated  by  the  peasants  of  Nantes  during  the  XVII 
and  XVIII  centuries  in  the  dams  of  the  Loire,  a  navigable  river, 
according  not  alone  to  Strabo  and  Caesar,  but  to  the  votive  in- 
scriptions of  the  sailors  of  the  Loire  during  the  Gallo-Roman 
period.  .  .  . 

General  Ronderos  lowered  his  head  and  relapsed  into  his  per- 
plexity, fatigue,  confusion  and  dizziness.  Bellegarde  listened, 
with  surprise  at  first,  then  with  impatience,  and,  at  last,  with 
supreme  disdain,  he  raised  his  right  hand  to  his  face,  took  off 
his  monocle  and  remained  for  half  an  hour  with  his  elbow  on 
one  arm  of  the  chair,  looking  vacantly  into  space. 


THE  CONSULTING  ENGINEER  39 

".  .  .  And  as  to  the  plats,  profiles  and  measurements,"  con- 
tinued Karlonoff,  after  an  hour  of  digressions,  "  which  have 
been  submitted  by  the  company,  I  imagine  and  affirm  at  first 
sight,  that  they  are  full  of  incalculable  and  unpardonable  errors, 
and  I  base  my  assertion  on  the  fact  that  to  survey  thoroughly  the 
area  of  a  country  or  the  slope  of  a  river  is  a  great  deal  more 
difficult  than  it  would  seem,  and  in  order  to  demonstrate  this,  it 
will  be  enough  for  me  to  remind  you  that  when  the  Franco-Prus- 
sian war  broke  out  there  was  displayed,  by  the  Staff  officers  of 
the  German  army,  a  map  in  which  the  territory  was  estimated 
at  533,845  square  kilometers;  but  as  soon  as  the  war  ended  — 
that  disastrous  war  which  cost  France  14,533  square  kilometers 
—  no  less  an  organ  than  the  famous,  but  always  mistaken  Alma- 
nac of  the  London  Geographical  Society,  estimated  the  territory 
of  France  at  520,443  square  kilometers;  so  that  at  the  same  time 
that  they  were  paring  kilometer  after  kilometer  from  France 
(and  at  this  point  he  looked  maliciously  at  the  Count)  her  terri- 
tory actually  kept  on  increasing,  thanks  to  the  erroneous  and 
barbarous  computations  published  year  after  year  by  the 
Annuaire  des  longitudes  of  Paris.  .  ." 

At  this  moment  Roberto  Avila,  who  had  arranged  to  go  with 
Bellegarde  to  see  the  Minister,  arrived  at  the  Government  Palace 
and  hurriedly  ascended  the  stairs.  He  stopped  a  while,  fatigued 
by  the  climb.  While  he  crossed  the  different  chambers,  he  was 
thinking  about  that  enterprise  to  which  all  his  capital  was  tied. 

As  he  entered  the  Ministerial  chamber,  he  stopped  for  a 
moment  and  at  once  understood  what  was  taking  place.  The 
General,  his  head  bowed  down,  hesitated;  Bellegarde  was  coldly 
saying  good-by;  Karlonoff  had  triumphed,  overwhelming  the 
Minister  with  an  avalanche  of  queer  names  and  abstruse 
deductions. 

"  I  was  clearly  demonstrating,"  said  Karlonoff,  thrusting  his 
hands  into  his  pockets,  "  I  was  clearly  demonstrating  that,  not 
only  is  the  canalization  for  ships  of  deep  draught  absolutely 
impracticable,  but  that  it  is  founded  on  unpardonable  errors, 
because  the  measurements  of  the  heights  are  all  wrong.  I  will 
explain :  it  is  enough  to  take  the  abcissae  of  two  pairs  of  stations, 
so  that  the  sum  of  those  of  the  second  pair  be  equal  to  those  of 
the  first,  and  joining,  two  by  two  the  corresponding  points  by 


40  PAX 

chords  that  are  parallel  and  with  their  means  on  the  same  ver- 
tical. .  .  .  Do  you  follow  me,  Don  Roberto?  " 

"Ah!  nothing  could  be  clearer!"  exclaimed  Roberto.  "I 
fancy  I  can  see  it!  "  And  he  made  a  sign  to  Bellegarde,  as 
much  as  to  say:  "  Don't  be  impatient;  wait,  I'll  fix  this  up." 

Karlonoff  continued  imperturbably : 

"  But  this  is  not  all,  Sefior  Minister.  We  must  look  at  the 
project  from  the  military  point  of  view.  It  is  dangerous,  when 
those  steamers  are  able  to  sail  the  river,  that  they  should  be 
allowed  to  come  so  near  to  the  capital  of  the  republic.  The  day 
that  happens,  we  will  be  lost,  from  the  military  point  of  view, 
unless  we  manage  to  build,  according  to  the  tactics  of  Admiral 
Fieramosca,  forts  with  artillery  of  heavy  caliber,  that  is  to  say: 
Maxim  guns  number  48,  as  the  ministries  of  War  and  the  Navy, 
for  whom  I  am  also  consulting  engineer,  have  advised;  and  for 
this  reason  I  think  I  have  clearly  demonstrated  that  the  enter- 
prise is  impracticable  from  the  military  point  of  view.  We  will 
be  invaded  as  the  Normans  invaded  Paris  through  the  Seine. 
But  there  is  something  else;  this  is  a  grave  matter  from  the 
point  of  view  of  Right,  for  the  Political  and  Municipal  Code, 
respecting  the  rights  of  the  owners  along  the  banks  of  the  river, 
is  entirely  opposed  to  this  kind  of  enterprises  in  articles  1893 
to  1896." 

"  What  articles  did  you  say?  "  asked  Roberto. 

"  1893  to  1896  of  the  Political  Code,  repeated  Karlonoff  un- 
shaken. 

"  I  don't  believe  that  Code  has  any  more  than  five  hundred 
articles.  Let's  have  a  look  at  it,"  said  Roberto,  and  going  over 
to  some  shelves,  he  scanned  the  titles. 

There  was  an  expectant  silence.  Bellegarde  sat  down;  Gen- 
eral Ronderos  straightened  up,  anxious  to  see  the  solution  of 
this  concrete  point.  This  matter,  of  easy  verification,  was  going 
to  show  him  whether  or  not  Karlonoff  knew  the  subjects  on  which 
he  spoke,  piling  up  figures  and  names.  .  .  .  While  Roberto 
looked  through  the  books  in  the  shelves,  in  the  interrogating 
silence  of  the  room,  there  came  to  the  chamber,  somewhat  dead- 
ened by  distance,  the  noises  from  the  square. 

"  *  Military  Code.'  .  .  .  No.  .  .  .  *  Collec  .  .  .  '  Not  this 
one,  either.  .  .  '  Laws  of  .  .  .  '  Here  it  is,  General;  let  us  see 
now!  .  .  ." 


THE  CONSULTING  ENGINEER  41 

He  opened  the  volume  at  the  last  page,  looked  at  it,  smiled 
and  handed  it  over  to  the  Minister. 

"  Look  here,  gentlemen,"  he  said:  "  the  '  Political  Code '  has 
no  such  article  1893;  it  only  has  378." 

"  I  may  have  made  a  mistake  in  my  figures,"  continued  Kar- 
lonoff  not  in  the  least  disconcerted,  "  an  engineer,  a  geologist,  a 
soldier,  a  geographer  need  not  know  anything  about  laws.  .  .  . 
I  don't  give  a  rap  about  them."  And  passing  immediately  to 
another  subject,  he  went  on :  "  These  plans,  these  maps  contain 
as  many  mistakes  as  there  are  lines  in  them.  There  is  only  one 
real  and  authentic  map  of  the  river :  The  Military  Map  of  the 
Magdalena,  drawn  by  myself  and  submitted  to  the  Chief  of 
Operations  in  the  last  war." 

"  And,  in  order  to  draw  that  map,  you  visited  those  regions,  I 
suppose?  "  asked  Roberto. 

"  Modern  science  has  spared  us  those  troubles.  I  can  recon- 
struct a  whole  region  through  the  science  of  tectonics.  It  is  the 
anatomy  of  the  earth.  With  only  a  handful  of  earth,  with  a 
stone,  I  am  like  Cuvier  with  a  bone,  I  can  tell  you  depths  to 
within  a  few  millimeters." 

"  All  right,"  said  Roberto,  "  you  may  not  know  laws  because 
they  are  not  your  specialty,  but  you  surely  know  the  Canal  San 
Martin;  there,  difficulties  of  a  similar  character  were  sur- 
mounted." 

"  The  Canal  San  Martin?  ...  Of  course  I  do!  It  is  twelve 
kilometers  long,  but  there  the  river  is  not  subject  to  changes  in 
its  bed."  And  again  changing  the  subject,  he  continued:  "  We 
have  not  taken  into  account  seismology,  another  new  science 
which  is  perhaps  unknown  to  M.  Bellegarde." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Roberto,  stopping  him,  "  whether  the 
Canal  San  Martin  is  twelve  kilometers  long  or  not  .  .  .  maybe 
it  is  ...  but  I  am  perfectly  sure  although  I  don't  know  any 
seismology,  that  it  has  four  acts,  six  tableaux  and  I  don't  know 
how  many  scenes." 

"Four  acts  ..."  interrupted  Ronderos,  "  a  canal?  .  .  .  >: 

"  Yes,  sir,  it  is  the  name  of  a  drama." 

"  Seiior  Bellegarde,"  exclaimed  General  Ronderos  rising,  "  I 
have  confidence  in  your  project  and  we  will  sign  the  contract!  " 


42  PAX 


CHAPTER  IV 

CONQUERORS 

"  ALEJANDRO,  have  you  ever  seen  in  Europe  such  a  landscape 
as  this?" 

"  I  feel  intoxicated  with  the  perfumes  from  this  mountain." 

They  had  left  Honda  at  dawn,  and  the  heavy  air,  the  unbear- 
able heat  had  given  place  to  delightful  breezes  that  wafted  the 
acrid  odor  of  the  barks  of  the  trees,  the  smell  of  the  mosses  and 
resins  and  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers  hidden  in  the  jungle. 

In  the  silence  of  the  early  morning  one  could  only  hear  the 
horses'  shoes  striking  the  steep  road,  the  warbling  of  some  early 
bird  and  the  dropping  of  the  dew  as  it  trickled  down  the  leaves 
and  fell  on  the  road. 

The  dawn,  the  breath  of  the  mountains,  his-  friends'  company, 
—  imparted  to  Roberto  an  exuberance  of  life,  of  strength,  of 
happiness.  Truly,  life  is  a  pleasure. 

They  came  to  a  clearing  and  saw  above  their  heads  a  dome  of 
diaphanous  blue.  As  the  fog  disappeared,  the  landscape, 
down  in  the  distance,  appeared  as  if  in  the  transparency  of  a 
twilight.  A  new  light  shone;  from  the  sea  of  fog  emerged  the 
sharp  outline  of  the  peaks,  the  masses  of  foliage  and  the  expanse 
of  the  valley.  When  the  fog  was  finally  dissipated,  the  valley 
appeared  far  away  at  the  bottom,  cut  from  end  to  end,  in  narrow 
bends,  by  the  Magdalena. 

The  forest  awoke.  There  was  a  concert  of  trills  and  songs 
and  a  fluttering  of  wings.  The  birds  flew  from  the  neighboring 
branches,  crossed  the  road  diagonally  and  vanished  again  chirp- 
ing among  the  trees. 

"  What  happiness,"  exclaimed  Alejandro,  "  to  breathe  this 
damp  cool  air  laden  with  the  emanations  from  the  forest,  that 
fills  my  lungs  and  intoxicates  me  like  wine.  .  .  .  How  beautiful 
this  immensity  that  has  never  been  measured  and  is  not  described 
in  any  guide  book  .  .  .  this.  .  .  .  Hold  on  a  moment!  .  .  . 
Hold  on  a  moment!  you  have  inspired  me  with  a  magnificent 
.  .  .  a  sublime  thought.  .  .  .  Where  did  we  put  it?  ...  Yes, 
in  this  bag  on  the  right  hand  side.  ..." 

He  produced  a  silver  flask,  unscrewed  the  stopper,  poured  out 


CONQUERORS  43 

some  liquid  and  took  off  his  hat,  exposing  his  ruddy  face  framed 
by  his  beard  and  his  golden  locks. 

"  Here  is  to  my  country,  the  most  beautiful,  the  best  beloved 
of  all  countries !  " 

In  spite  of  his  joyful  tone,  there  was  a  touch  of  emotion  and 
tenderness  in  Alejandro's  voice. 

They  continued  the  ascent. 

"  Faust,  Faust,"  exclaimed  Roberto,  "  you  are  always  the  same 
.  .  .  you  are  always  yearning  for  new  sensations,  seeking  all 
excesses  and  all  contrasts." 

"  That  reminds  me,  sir  weathervane,  have  you  finished  that 
translation  of  Faust?  " 

"  It  is  beyond  my  power;  Goethe  encloses  the  diamond  of  his 
thought  in  the  hardest  of  quartz.  The  translator  has  a  stone- 
cutter's job,  and  I  was  not  made  for  that  sort  of  work  ...  it  is 
more  suited  to  the  patience  and  the  tenacity  of  Doctor  Al- 
con.  .  .  ." 

"  Talking  of  something  else.  ...  Do  you  know  that  General 
Ronderos  has  slated  us  for  the  Senate?  " 

"No!  .  .  .  who  would  care  for  that  sort  of  thing?  ...  I 
suppose  you  told  him  that  it  is  impossible,  that  we  decline  the 
honor,  that.  ..." 

"  I  haven't  told  him  anything  of  the  kind,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  we  cannot  abandon  him  in  the  struggle.  ...  He 
himself  warned  me  that  he  was  not  inviting  us  to  go  to  Tabor 
but  to  Calvary.  " 

They  heard  behind  them,  down  the  slope,  the  noise  of  rolling 
stones  and  of  a  herd  of  animals  struggling  up  the  mountain. 
They  stopped  and  turned  round  to  have  a  look.  It  was  Casa- 
nova, Alejandro's  steward,  and  Wilan  Gil,  nicknamed  Chispas, 
General  Rondero's  steward,  bringing  fresh  animals  and  two 
carriage  horses  newly  imported  from  Europe. 

"How  are  the  sorrels?" 

They  were  two  thoroughbreds.  Under  their  soft  shining 
hides,  one  could  see  their  veins  and  their  powerful  muscles. 

"  See  how  scared  they  are,  walking  through  this  wilderness," 
said  Alejandro. 

"  And  without  deigning  to  speak  to  those  mules,  just  as  we 
noticed  in  El  Mow,  by  Uncle  Manuel." 

They  reached  the  height  and  began  the  descent.    At  the  bottom 


44  PAX 

of  the  hill  roared  a  stream  which  rushing  down  to  the  road, 
formed  a  pool  and  then  continued  its  headlong  course  down  the 
valley. 

The  mules  thrust  their  ears  forward  and  dilated  their  nostrils 
as  they  rushed  towards  the  pool.  The  early  rays  of  the  sun, 
shining  through  the  tremulous  transparency  of  the  water,  gilded 
the  stones  at  the  bottom. 

"  You  go  ahead,"  said  Alejandro  to  Gil  and  Casanova,  "  and 
tell  them  to  get  our  lunch  ready  at  El  Consuelo." 

After  changing  their  mounts,  the  stewards  hastened  ahead  and 
the  two  friends  continued  on  their  way. 

"  And  how  is  business?  " 

"Business?"  asked  Roberto.  "To  be  perfectly  frank  .  .  . 
you  know  that  I  started  in  business  with  very  little  .  .  .  almost 
nothing.  .  .  .  Well,  that  little  has  gone  on  increasing  .  .  . 
increasing.  ..." 

Alejandro  was  on  the  point  of  saying  something  when  a  man, 
who  was  traveling  in  a  hurry,  caught  up  to  them.  He  gave 
them  a  nasty  look,  with  a  mixture  of  surprise  and  disappoint- 
ment, spurred  on  his  horse  and  left  them  behind. 

"  Do  you  know  him?  "  asked  Roberto. 

"No." 

"  He  is  Escipion  Socarraz." 

"Escipion?  .  .  .  With  that  air,  without  stopping?  .  .  . 
What  has  happened?" 

"  That  is  a  story  .  .  .  which  is  very  often  repeated." 

"  I  left  him  four  years  ago  at  the  El  Sauzal  with  his  old  man, 
who  wanted  to  teach  him  to  work." 

"  He  will  never  learn  that,  and  there  is  not  one  man  alive 
who  will  be  able  to  teach  him,  either.  .  .  .  Well,  you  know  that 
the  poor  old  man,  who  still  goes  barefooted,  spent  the  little  money 
he  had  saved  for  thirty  years  to  send  his  son  to  college.  But  no 
one  could  make  Escipion  study.  He  coveted  honors  and  dis- 
tinctions, but  he  would  not  work  for  them  and  he  asserted  that 
the  professor  disliked  him  because  he  was  poor  and  that  the  rich 
students  were  favorites.  He  was  expelled  from  college  because 
he  started  I  don't  know  what  revolt.  He  went  home  saying  that 
he  did  not  care  to  study  any  longer  and  that  he  was  anxious  to 
start  work  right  away.  The  old  man  gave  him  all  he  had,  and 
Escipion  made  it  vanish  in  quick  time.  He  asked  for  more 


CONQUERORS  45 

money;  the  old  man  refused  it.     Escipion  forged  his  father's 
signature  trying  to  get  it;  his  father,  when  he  discovered  the 
crooked  deal,  threw  him  out  of  the  house." 
"  And  now?"  .  .  . 

"  Can't  you  guess  ?  .  .  .  Now  he  is  an  aggressive  and  humor- 
*)  ous  journalist;  he  writes  for  El  Escorpion.  .  .  .  No,  he  does  not 
/  write.     He  is  the  responsible  editor.     He  lets  others  write  and 
\  he  faces  the  music  and  answers  for  everything.  .  .  .  The  title       , 
of  the  paper  will  show  you  its  aims.  ...  I  bet  he  is  on  his  way   * ' 
to  meet  Landaburo  and  place  his  paper  and  himself  at  his  dis- 
posal." 

V^   "  No  one  would  benefit  more  by  war  than  Escipion.  .  .  .  Men 
^of  his  type  obtain  through  our  revolutions,  at  one  jump,  as  if\ 
,  by  magic,  the  social  position,  the  wealth  and  the  celebrity  that 
/  others  only  reach  through  great  efforts,  after  a  life  of  arduous 
f   and  meritorious  toil."  _,^/ 

\^  "  Those  are  Landaburo's  men,  his  future  soldiers,  his  future 
captains,  and  .  .  .  believe  me,  it  will  be  a  terrible  army,  for 
they  cannot  lose  anything  by  defeat,  whereas  they  can  gain  every- 
thing if  they  triumph." 

For  a  long  time  they  continued  in  silence  along  their  way  with 
their  heads  hanging  down.  Their  enthusiasm  was  disappearing 
at  the  prospects  of  war. 

Suddenly  Alejandro  pulled  up  the  reins,  and  looking  at  his 
friend  fixedly,  he  said : 

"  Let  us  talk  again  about  your  cousin  Ines.  ...  Has  the 
wedding  been  arranged  yet?     No?     When  I  went  away,  you 
were  full  of  enthusiasm.  ...  Is  she  as  beautiful,  as  aristocra- 
tic, as  discreet  as  ever?  " 
"No.  .  .  ." 
"No?     How  is  that?" 

"  No;  she  is  now  more  beautiful,  more  aristocratic,  more  dis- 
creet than  ever." 

"  And  you  love  her  .  .  .  and  she  returns  the  compliment.  So 
you  are  getting  married,  at  last  ...  No  no.  You  are  always 
like  a  butterfly;  you'll  neither  finish  the  translation  from  Goethe, 
nor  Don  Melchor's  biography,  nor  your  colonial  studies,  and 
you  will  not  complete  one  sonnet  in  your  life  and  you  will  not 
marry  Ines." 
"  Maybe." 


46  PAX 

"  Look  here,  I  am  rather  pleased  at  that.  Ines  is  not  for  you 
and  you  are  not  for  Ines." 

"  Well,  there  is  not  a  woman  so  much  like  me  as  she  is," 
replied  Roberto  enthusiastically.  "  I  feel  that  when  I  am  with 
her.  Same  tastes,  same  temperaments.  ..." 

"  Exactly!  a  couple  of  dreamers,  a  couple  of  wills  o'  the  wisp. 
That  will  never  do!  They  say  that  two  strong  wills  should  not 
be  united,  nor  two  weak  ones,  either.  You  need  another  kind  of 
woman.  You  must  oppose  stern  reality  to  your  dreams,  and 
resolution  to  your  hesitancy.  For  a  complicated  nature  like 
yours,  you  need  a  simple,  unsophisticated,  practical,  primitive 
nature,  like  that  of  a  girl  who  came  up  the  river  with  me.  .  .  . 
You  say  I  never  remember  you?  .  .  .  Well,  I  thought  of  you 
when  I  saw  that  girl.  She  comes  with  her  father,  a  millionaire 
who  is  going  to  settle  down  in  Bogota.  That  girl  certainly 
would  suit  you.  .  .  ." 

"Nothing  doing!  A  scientific  marriage,  according  to  pro- 
gram, according  to  schedule.  ...  A  mariage  de  convenance? 
.  .  .  that  won't  suit  me.  If  I  ever  get  married,  it  will  be  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment." 

"  Even  her  name  is  pretty,"  insisted  Alejandro.  "  Lola  .  .  . 
Lola  Montellano." 

"  Montellano!  "  exclaimed  Roberto,  arching  his  brows  with 
displeasure.  "  He  is  the  very  man  who  has  bought  our  house, 
through  an  agent." 

"  Did  you  sell  your  house?  "  asked  Alejandro  with  a  mixture 
of  surprise  and  regret.  "  Well,  that  is  an  argument  in  favor  of 
what  I  was  telling  you.  Of  the  vital  money  question,  you  only 
know  one  side:  you  know  how  to  spend  it." 

"And  what  about  yourself?  "  Roberto  questioned  ironically. 
"  Ah !  I  respect  in  you  the  master  who  has  the  authority  of  ex- 
perience. .  .  .  You  will  have  to  sell  half  of  Sauzal  and  Ceba- 
deros  to  defray  the  expenses  of  your  last  trip  and  of  the  contents 
of  those  boxes  there  ...  I  can  guess,"  he  continued,  pointing  to 
the  ten  mules  that  carried  Alejandro's  baggage,  "  that  you  have 
there,  tapestries,  bronzes,  works  of  art,  all  the  surprises  that  you 
have  promised  me  ...  I  can  tell  you  right  away  who  your 
buyer  will  be.  It  would  be  very  funny  if  it  were  that  same 
Montellano.  I  guess  the  father  will  buy  your  estates,  and  I 
recommend  that  you  marry  his  daughter.  ..." 


CONQUERORS  47 

"  That  Montellano  .  .  .  you  will  meet  him  to-morrow,  per- 
haps to-day.  .  .  .  He  has  amused  me  very  much  during  the 
voyage.  There  is  a  strong  contrast  between  his  method  of  seeing 
and  feeling  things  and  our  own  w^iy;  but  he  is  not  a  man  to  be 
laughed  at;  he  is  a  formidable  fighter,  a  winner.  He  has  made 
a  fortune  by  dint  of  muscle  and  brains  .  .  .  through  hard  work, 
as  he  says.  Some  one  has  told  me  the  story  of  his  life.  He 
arrived,  twenty  years  ago,  at  the  forest  of  Taguate,  with  only 
his  wife,  an  ax  in  one  hand  and  a  fixed  idea  in  his  head,  namely, 
to  get  rich.  He  cleared  the  forest  tree  by  tree  and  snake  by 
snake  and  .  .  .  but  you'll  hear  him  tell  you  about  it.  ...  At 
the  end  of  ten  years,  those  mountain  sides  were  covered  with 
fields  of  grazing  grass  and  sugar  cane.  In  order  to  get  his  mill 
going,  he  diverted  a  stream  that  passed  through  the  town.  The 
citizens  protested;  they  were  dying  of  thirst.  It  was  then  that 
a  struggle  started  between  the  town  and  the  mill,  and  that 
struggle  is  still  going  on.  Sometimes  the  citizens,  armed  to  the 
teeth,  attack  the  one  hundred  men  at  the  mill,  beat  them  and 
set  fire  to  the  sugar  plantations.  .  .  .  Other  times  Montellano 
sweeps  down  on  the  town,  the  fight  begins,  swords  flash  in  the 
sun,  his  men  win,  blood  flows  freely  .  .  .  and  the  water  also 
flows  through  his  mill.  One  month,  only  one  month  of  grinding 
at  the  mill  and  the  safe  is  full  again.  After  his  strokes  with 
the  ax,  he  tries  some  financial  strokes.  He  is  the  greatest  buyer 
of  real  estate  in  those  regions.  Finally,  he  has  decided  to  invest 
his  money  in  houses  and  estates  .  .  .  and  he  comes  to  exercise 
his  talents,  his  energy,  his  audacity  in  a  far  wider  field:  he 
comes  to  conquer  the  capital." 

"  So  that  the  girl,"  said  Roberto  sarcastically,  "  has  most  ex- 
cellent qualities.  She  is  hardworking  and  a  good  housekeeper." 

"  Come  on,  let  us  talk  seriously.  I  don't  recommend  you  that 
girl  because  of  her  money.  ...  Of  course  not!  One  ought  to 
be  the  master,  not  the  slave  of  money.  .  .  .  But  you  really  need 
some  one  that  will  take  advantage  of  your  initiative  and  talent, 
not  for  the  benefit  of  others  but  for  yourself.  She  possesses 
precisely  what  you  lack:  ambition,  a  will  that  will  guide  you, 
that  will  force  you  to  think  of  the  realities  of  life,  that  will  make 
you  understand  your  duties." 

"My  duties?  ...  Ah!  yes,  any  one  who  marries  her  will 
have  plenty  of  duties." 


48  PAX 

"  No,  she  will  make  the  yoke  easy  to  bear;  you'll  manage  to 
shape  her  to  suit  your  fancy." 

"  Yes,  any  one  who  marries  her  will  have  plenty  of  duties, 
for  father-in-law  Montellano  will  get  mixed  up  in  his  real  state 
affairs.  .  .  .  Thanks!  I  must  decline  the  girl.  .  .  .  How  could 
I  leave  Ines  ?  And  now  even  less  than  ever.  I  would  be  guilty 
of  desertion  in  the  face  of  the  enemy!  " 

"  Enemy?  .  .  .  Who?  ...  A  rival?  ..." 

"  You'll  make  his  acquaintance  and  he'll  be  a  great  friend  of 
yours.  .  .  .  He  is  a  man  who  maintains  that  the  only  aim  in  life 
is  art  ...  a  stubborn  Wagnerian  who  admires  in  the  Master, 
rather  the  apostle  of  art  than  the  artist  that  he  was.  He  is  a 
dangerous  rival.  You  can  easily  see  how  much  you  and  Ines 
will  like  him,  with  those  ideas  of  his.  ...  I  have  never  seen 
in  any  one  such  a  perfect  balance  between  the  head  and  the 
heart.  .  .  .  You  see,  I  can  do  him  justice.  .  .  .  He  has  even 
conquered  me.  ...  I  have  risked  in  his  enterprise  all  that  I 
have,  all  that  remains  to  me,  because  he  is  a  great  contractor." 

"  And  what  is  his  name  ?  " 

"Bellegarde?" 

"  I  know  him  by  name.  I  learned  that  he  was  coming  to 
Colombia  and  that  some  friends  had  given  him  letters  of  intro- 
duction for  Aunt  Teresa." 

"  And  that's  why  she  invited  him  to  dinner  on  New- Year's 
day.  .  .  .  That  very  night  I  noticed  that  Ines  managed  to  melt 
the  ice  of  which  he  is  made  up.  ...  Although  he  does  not  seem 
to  have  ever  loved  any  women  except  those  on  pictures  or  in 
statues,  I  noticed  certain  signs  and  gestures  that  showed  me  he 
is  not  indifferent  to  living  beauty." 

"  And  what  did  you  see  ?  " 

"  I  repeat,  almost  imperceptible  gestures,  tones  of  voice,  fur- 
tive glances." 

"  And  is  that  all?.  .  .  That  isn't  much,  even  for  an  Othello." 

"  There  is  something  more  serious  than  that.  I  was  standing 
near  the  piano,  besides  Ines;  there  was  a  mirror  in  front  of  me, 
and  without  his  suspecting  anything,  I  saw  him  approach  a  table 
on  which  Ines  had  left  a  bouquet  of  Castile  roses  and  I  saw  him 
take  up  two  or  three  and  conceal  them  furtively." 

"  Is  that  so?  .  .  .  I  am  very  glad  of  it !     And  I  hope  Ines  will 


CONQUERORS  49 

respond  to  his  affection.  .  .  .  And  what  about  his  enterprise?  " 

"  As  I  told  you  last  night,  Bellegarde  has  a  redeeming  idea,  a 
colossal  project,  the  canalization  of  the  Magdalena  and  the 
colonization  of  the  forests  on  the  banks  of  the  river.  The  con- 
tract with  the  government  has  already  been  signed." 

"That's  great!"  exclaimed  Alejandro.  "I  think  the  idea 
is  admirable." 

"  Yes,  admirable,  not  only  for  the  country  generally,  but  for 
ourselves  particularly,"  added  Roberto  with  increasing  enthu- 
siasm. "  I  told  you  that  we  have  sold  our  house,  partly  to  pay 
our  debts  and  partly  to  buy  some  shares  in  this  enterprise.  .  .  . 
You  also  should  buy  a  few  shares.  I  have  asked  Bellegarde 
to  reserve  some  for  you.  Ah!  you  shall  see!  We'll  be  rich 
.  .  .  no,  not  rich,  millionaires." 

"  And  have  you  paid  for  the  shares?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  So  that  you  have  burned  your  ships?  All  your  future,  all 
your  happiness  is  tied  to  the  success  of  this  enterprise." 

"  Everything.  On  it  depends  my  mother's  peace  of  mind,  my 
position  in  life,  the  fulfilment  of  my  ambitions,  my  marriage. 
...  I  have  staked  everything  on  one  card." 

"  Yes,  I  will  also  take  some  shares,"  exclaimed  Alejandro, 
glancing  at  the  vast  panorama  with  an  expression  of  triumph. 
"  I  will  also  take  some  shares !  .  .  .  And  while  you  help  Belle- 
garde  at  Bogota,  I  will  come  to  these  forests  and  use  up  my 
energy,  this  excess  of  vigor  which  constitutes  both  my  happiness 
and  my  misfortune.  ...  Ah!  we'll  accomplish  wonderful 
things!  .  .  .  Yes,  I'll  sell  Cebaderos  and  buy  some  shares.  .  .  ." 

Suddenly,  Roberto  made  a  gesture  of  disillusionment. 

"  Wonderful  things?  ...  Ah!  if  there  were  only  peace!  . . .  " 

"  There  shall  be  peace.  It  is  true  that  Landaburo  has  gone 
up  the  river  haranguing  all  the  towns  on  his  way.  It  is  true 
that  Cardoso,  according  to  a  rumor  along  the  coast,  has  been 
sneaking  along  the  frontier;  but  the  country  wants  peace.  .  .  . 
Landaburo's  colossal  vanity,  Sanchez  Mendez's  spite,  the  em- 
bition  of  Cardoso,  and  Polanco,  Socarraz's  jealousy  ...  all  will 
go  up  in  smoke  and  will  vanish  before  the  breezes  of  progress 
and  wealth.  The  nation  will  finally  come  to  know  those  men 
and  learn  to  despise  them.  Ourselves,  under  the  leadership  of 


50  PAX 

General  Ronderos,  will  exert  our  utmost  energy  against  those 
barbarians  and  against  wild  nature.  .  .  .  This  enterprise  must 
be  carried  out,  and  it  shall  be  carried  out." 

As  he  spoke,  his  faith,  his  enthusiasm,  his  warmth  revealed 
his  true  self.  His  athletic  body  seemed  to  emanate  will  and 
power.  In  his  blue  eyes  shone  the  spark  of  madness  which  in- 
spires to  impossible  adventures  and  gigantic  enterprises. 

"  Yes,  I'll  go  to  those  forests;  I'll  banish  the  crocodiles  from 
the  river;  I'll  build  a  great  port.  Where  the  tigers  roar,  the 
locomotives  shall  whistle;  where  there  is  nothing  but  an  im- 
penetrable jungle,  cities  shall  arise." 

They  had  arrived  at  another  summit;  they  turned  round  and 
contemplated  the  vast  horizon. 

They  continued  on  their  way,  intoxicated  with  their  own 
ideas,  discussing  details,  peering  into  the  future,  outlining  their 
dreams  of  struggle,  prosperity  and  progress.  Yes,  they  would 
achieve  the  conquest  of  those  immense  forests,  impenetrable,  full 
of  swamps,  inhabited  by  wild  beasts.  The  river,  converted  into 
a  deep  channel,  would  allow  the  big  steamers  to  pass  with  their 
crowds  of  immigrants  and  would  go  back  again  with  the  produce 
of  those  fertile  regions.  A  world  would  awake  there,  a  world 
that  had  been  divined  and  discovered,  but  had  remained  uncon- 
quered.  And  from  that  intact,  virgin  world,  full  of  incalculable 
treasures  hidden  in  the  shadow  of  its  forests,  there  would  issue 
a  hubbub  of  life,  a  hymn  of  resurrection,  a  clamoring  of  bells 
and  anvils  from  the  new  towns.  Busy  cities,  throbbing  with 
life  would  emerge  from  the  smiling  plantations,  and  amidst  the 
thundering  of  industry,  the  humming  of  commerce  and  the  roll- 
ing of  gold,  millions  of  men,  happy,  rich  and  enjoying  peace, 
would  bless  and  acclaim  the  founders  of  their  prosperity  and 
greatness. 

And  the  two  men,  descendants  of  the  Spanish  conquerors,  feel- 
ing within  them  the  awakening  of  an  instinct  for  noble  adven- 
tures and  gigantic  conceptions,  intoxicated  by  the  endless  hori- 
zon, stimulated  by  the  perfumes  of  that  tropical  morning,  ex- 
tended their  arms  in  a  wide  gesture  of  dominion,  hope  and 
victory. 


HAPPENINGS  AT  THE  INN  51 


CHAPTER  V 

HAPPENINGS   AT    THE   INN 

THEY  had  almost  reached  the  inn,  when  Roberto  shouted  with 
surprise : 

"What's  that?" 

In  the  middle  of  the  square,  in  front  of  the  inn,  two  men,  face 
to  face,  were  challenging  each  other;  one  of  them,  slender,  swar- 
thy, with  a  black  beard,  held  a  club  in  one  hand;  the  other,  big, 
fat,  cross-eyed,  tightly  clutched  a  razor.  Through  one  of  the 
windows  peered  the  panic  stricken  face  of  a  girl. 

"  Be  quiet!  "  shouted  Alejandro.  "  Be  quiet,  Escipion!  .  .  . 
What's  the  matter,  Milan  ?  " 

The  two  warriors,  the  reporter  of  El  Escorpion  and  General 
Ronderos'  steward,  after  casting  a  murderous  glance  at  each 
other,  a  look  with  which  they  seemed  to  postpone  their  quarrel, 
withdrew. 

A  plump  woman  issued  from  the  inn.  She  greeted  the  travel- 
ers joyfully  and  then  began  to  pour  forth  complaints.  Those 
two  young  men  gave  her  no  peace  at  all.  .  .  .  She  was  quite 
happy  at  Sabana,  at  El  Sauzal,  but  she  had  had  to  move.  There 
was  a  quarrel  like  that  one  every  week;  all  because  of  her 
daughter  Bibiana,  who  did  not  love  either  one  of  them  or  loved 
them  both.  .  .  .  Finally,  she  had  set  up  her  inn  there,  far  away, 
but  the  devil  brought  the  two  lovers  after  her  daughter.  .  .  . 
Some  fine  day  there  would  be  an  accident !  .  .  . 

"  The  razor  ...  the  club  ..."  laughed  Alejandro  remem- 
bering Roberto's  fits  of  jealously.  "  How  is  that?  ..." 

".Get  off  your  mules,"  said  the  innkeeper.  "  Come  and  get 
your  lunch,  for  if  you  don't  hurry.  ...  I  am  going  to  have  a 
lot  of  people  to-day." 

They  went  in.  At  the  table,  with  his  back  to  the  door,  a  man 
was  hastily  swallowing  a  dish  of  eggs.  Above  his  white  coat 
could  be  seen  his  neck  and  his  bald  head,  red  and  greasy. 

"  My  dear  Gonzalez  Mogollon,"  said  Alejandro,  throwing  his 
arms  from  behind  around  the  neck  of  the  man.  "  You  here?  " 

"  Yes,  my  friend.  How  glad  I  am  to  see  you!  Four  years 
without  seeing  you!  I  knew  you  had  come  up  the  river  on 


52  PAX 

board  the  Panchita  Stevenson.  Where  did  you  leave  the  Sisters 
of  Charity?  I  came  here  to  meet  them,  because,  you  know,  my 
life  is  devoted  to  the  poor.  ...  I  don't  want  to  make  a  noise 
with  my  affairs,"  he  added  in  a  droning  voice  and  gesticulating 
furiously,  "  but  I  may  tell  you  that  to-day  I  have  three  plans 
and  one  project  on  my  hands.  Look  at  this  piece  of  ribbon  in 
my  watch  chain;  I  tied  it  there  so  that  I  could  remember  not  to 
let  General  Landaburo  go  by  without  speaking  to  him  about  an 
agreement  between  the  club  La  Revaluation,  of  which  he  is  the 
leader,  and  that  of  La  Integridad,  to  which  I  belong.  They 
tell  me  that  he  is  in  a  good  frame  of  mind,  and  that  he  is  preach- 
ing peace.  Look  at  this  piece  of  cotton  I  have  in  my  ear;  it  is 
to  remind  me  that  I  must  found  here,  as  I  have  done  at  other 
inns,  a  series  of  moral  readings,  compulsory  and  gratis  ...  a 
practical  idea  for  education  and  uplift.  While  the  guests  eat, 
whether  they  will  or  not,  I  get  them  a  reader  who  entertains  them 
with  the  most  edifying  literature.  Besides,  I  am  waiting  for 
the  Sisters  of  Charity,  to  see  if  they  will  take  charge  of  the 
Teaching  Hospital,  another  idea  of  mine,  a  practical  idea,  abso- 
lutely practical.  And,  mind  you,  I  don't  speak  about  it  because 
it  concerns  me,  for  my  thoughts  are  always  on  heavenly  things." 

"  You  are  always  so  busy,  Seiior  Gonzalez,  with  hundreds  of 
plans  in  your  head  at  the  same  time." 

"  My  friend,  everybody  curses  Gonzalez  Mogollon,  but  I 
always  win  my  point." 

"  Who  did  you  leave  behind  on  the  road?  "  added  Gonzalez. 

"  I  left  behind  the  two  Sisters,  with  whom  I  was  very  friendly 
during  the  journey,"  said  Alejandro  walking  up  and  down  the 
hall. 

"  And  Landaburo?  "  asked  Gonzalez. 

"  Oh,  yes;  he  also  remained  behind.  He  could  have  arrived 
yesterday,  but  he  stopped  at  Honda,  doing  some  propaganda 
work,  spouting  against  the  policy  of  the  closed  door  and  against 
the  white  terror  and  about  the  rights  of  the  people  and  the  law 
number  22  with  its  iniquitous  paragraph,  but  .  .  .  withal 
preaching  peace,  a  peace  after  his  own  fashion." 

"  I  bet  my  head,"  roared  Gonzalez  Mogollon,  striking  his  own 
neck  with  the  edge  of  his  hand,  "  yes,  my  head,  that  before 
fifteen  days  I  have  made  the  leaders  of  the  two  parties  come  to 
an  agreement.  I  have  already  arranged  a  banquet.  .  .  .  Landa- 


HAPPENINGS  AT  THE  INN  53 

buro  said  peace?  .  .  .  Then  we  shall  have  peace  for  twenty 
years." 

"  Talking  about  actors,"  said  Alejandro,  "  the  Opera  Company 
is  coming." 

"  And  the  pri  .  .  .  ma  don  .  .  .  na,"  interrupted  Roberto 
sneeringly. 

"  Yes,  man,  a  marvel,  a  charmer.  Even  her  name  is  charm- 
ing: Rondinelli,  Swallow.  If  you  could  only  hear  her  in  Aida, 
in  the  final  duet  with  Malatesta." 

"  Malatesta  .  . .  Rondinelli . .  .  Opera,"  added  Gonzalez  in  the 
attitude  of  a  man  who  is  watching  somebody.  "  I'll  get  the 
hold  of  them.  .  .  .  I'll  squeeze  them  .  .  .  you'll  see  how  I  get 
a  benefit  night  out  of  them  for  my  Teaching  Hospital  .  .  .  and 
so  that  I  won't  forget,  I'll  undo  this  button  in  my  waistcoat." 

"  Look,  Roberto,"  said  Alejandro  in  low  tones,  "  There  you 
have  Montellano's  daughter." 

"The  millionaire?  .  .  .  yes,  yes,"  interrupted  Gonzalez  with 
a  threatening  and  malicious  gesture,  "  even  if  he  swears  and 
comes  away  with  his  non  serviam,  I  must  get  twenty  thousand 
dollars  out  of  him  for  the  Society  for  Compulsory  Salvation  .  .  . 
and  about  thirty  thousand  for  the  hospital  I  have  already  men- 
tioned." 

Montellano's  spurs  resounded  on  the  cobblestones,  and  with 
his  legs  wide  open,  so  as  not  to  trip,  he  went  over  to  speak  to  the 
landlady  about  the  lunch. 

Lunch  was  served  very  shortly  after,  and  with  appetizing 
viands  the  travelers  restored  their  forces,  exhausted  by  hunger 
and  the  early  start. 

After  lunch,  Montellano,  still  wearing  his  riding  coat,  his 
spurs  and  his  hat,  leaned  on  a  stool  against  the  wall  and  gave 
himself  up  to  the  enjoyment  of  a  quiet  digestion.  Almost  asleep, 
with  his  eyes  half  closed,  he  was  thinking  of  his  estate,  La 
Danta,  the  sugar  mill,  the  bloody  fights  for  the  water,  the  river 
of  honey,  the  river  of  gold.  He  thought  of  the  other  properties, 
in  the  warm  lands  and  in  the  cold  lands,  of  the  money  loaned  out, 
of  the  tardy  debtors,  of  the  business  transactions  Roberto  had 
mentioned,  of  the  probable  yields  of  a  certain  property,  of  the 
new  business  that  was  awaiting  him  at  the  capital,  of  the  new 
house  he  had  bought  without  seeing  it.  And  as  he  thought  of 
these  things,  he  faintly  perceived  the  objects  that  surrounded 


54  PAX 

him:  the  mules  stamping  on  the  stones  while  they  chewed  their 
fodder,  a  brooding  hen,  scratching  in  the  grass,  followed  by  her 
chicks.  He  heard  the  noises  of  the  inn,  of  a  monotonous  conver- 
sation and  of  tin  whirh  was  being  trailed  around  by  a  boy,  and, 
drowning  all  these  noises,  enveloping  everything  in  a  soothing 
lullaby,  came  the  murmur  of  the  earth,  a  murmur  made  up  of  the 
roaring  of  the  streams,  the  silky  rustling  of  the  banana  trees  and 
the  sleepy  song  of  the  cicadas.  Suddenly,  to  that  symphony 
was  added  the  thunderous  snoring  of  Montellano,  interrupted 
now  and  then  by  incoherent  words:  one  hundred  thousand  .  .  . 
double  the  rent  ...  go  on  with  the  harvest  .  .  .  not  one  cent 
less.  .  .  . 

Meanwhile,  Dolores  went  out  to  stretch  her  legs,  holding  up 
her  riding  habit.  She  wished  to  take  a  look  at  the  road  they 
were  going  to  follow,  and  at  one  side  of  the  house,  she  saw  the 
narrow  steps  of  the  road  higher  up,  in  the  frigid  atmosphere, 
the  peaks  of  the  mountain  range,  on  which  rested  threatening 
clouds.  Then  she  went  over  to  the  other  side  of  the  house 
and  glanced  at  the  road  they  had  left  behind.  She  moved  a 
few  steps  and  stood  at  the  edge  of  a  steep  bank,  over  the  warm 
earth  below.  Near  her,  the  dry  leaves  were  shaken  by  some 
lizards.  The  top  of  a  palm  that  grew  at  the  bottom  of  the 
precipice,  waved  like  a  fan  at  her  feet,  and  among  its  leaves 
flashed  a  bunch  of  red  fruit.  From  the  trees  hung  the  trans- 
parent red  and  purple  bells  of  some  creepers.  An  enormous 
butterfly,  with  its  velvety  wings  shining  in  the  light,  crossed  in 
front  of  her. 

"  I  was  right,"  said  Alejandro,  leaning  against  the  frame 
of  the  door  and  looking  at  Dolores.  "  Look,  Roberto,  look 
at  that  rosy  face,  look  at  that  vigorous  body  .  .  .  and  above  all, 
look  at  those  eyes." 

"  Yes,  they  are  full  of  determination  and  fire." 

From  her  high  observation  point,  Dolores  glanced  at  the 
landscape  and  she  saw  the  deep  wide  valley  extending  as  far 
as  the  horizon  as  if  embracing  half  a  continent.  She  trembled 
to  see  at  her  feet  the  tops  of  the  intertwined  trees  waving  to 
and  fro,  displaying,  when  their  branches  parted,  lights  and 
shadows  and  the  roots,  trunks  and  creepers  that  coiled  like 
snakes  fighting  with  each  other  at  the  bottom  of  the  precipice. 
In  successive  waves,  forest  follows  forest,  until  the  waves  disap- 


HAPPENINGS  AT  THE  INN  55 

pear  in  the  distance.  The  nearest  forest  shines  in  all  the 
splendor  of  its  red  flowers  and  the  vivid  green  of  its  foliage.  As 
the  forests  disappear  in  the  distance,  the  colors  become  dulled 
and  mingle  with  each  other.  Only  at  intervals  can  be  seen  the 
fans  of  the  palm  trees,  the  yellow  flowers  of  the  guaduales 
and  the  black  patches  of  the  cuttings  and  the  clearings. 

From  the  'river,  as  it  flows  through  the  burning  sand,  rises 
a  vapor  that  floats  along  with  the  stream,  and  through  this 
veil,  torn  at  times  by  the  breeze,  may  be  seen  the  flash  of 
the  water. 

Standing  out  against  the  sky,  the  cone  of  Tolima  displays 
its  pearly  shadings  and  the  white  cap  on  which  fall  cascades 
of  carmine  and  gold.  An  intense  light,  a  tropical  light,  with 
streaks  of  red,  yellow  and  green,  floods  everything  in  a  riot 
of  color. 

Roberto,  who  also  wished  to  admire  the  landscape  and  at 
the  same  time  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  Alejandro's  Lola, 
approached  the  edge  of  the  precipice  and  let  his  eyes  wander 
over  the  magnificent  landscape.  He  remained  there  as  if  in 
ecstasy,  charmed  by  the  sunshiny  morning  and  enjoying  it  with 
his  whole  being,  which  in  those  moments  became  so  sensitive 
that  it  vibrated  at  the  slightest  sensations.  The  leaves  rustled. 
Dolores  turned  her  head  around  and  smiled.  Roberto,  very 
courteously  approaching  her,  uttered  a  few  formal  phrases  which 
did  not  displease  her  in  the  least.  She  encouraged  him  to  pro- 
long a  conversation  in  which  Roberto  had  an  opportunity 
to  display  his  wit  and  cleverness  and  all  the  treasures  of 
his  fantasy. 

A  merry  chorus  interrupted  their  conversation. 

Noisily,  with  light  colored  dresses,  decorated  with  flowers, 
their  hats  over  one  ear  and  a  smile  under  their  musketeer 
mustaches,  the  men  of  the  Opera  Company  chorus  came  out  into 
the  square.  Behind  them  came  the  tenor,  Malatesta,  majes- 
tically wrapped  in  a  Scottish  plaid  that  covered  the  crupper 
of  the  mule. 

"All  hail,  Radames!  "  shouted  Alejandro,  humming  the 
march  from  Aida. 

"  La-ri-la-ri  .  .  .  Salute,  caro  Alessandro! "  answered  the 
tenor  in  a  thunderous  voice,  swelling  out  his  shirt  with  his 
powerful  lungs.  He  took  off  his  hat,  wiped  his  brow  and  his 


56  PAX 

brown  locks  with  his  handkerchief,  rubbed  his  broad  neck  and 
stared  at  Alejandro  with  his  olive  colored  pupils. 

"  Cuanto  caldo!  .  .  .  Heavens!     How  hot!"  he  exclaimed. 

Madame  Rondinelli  came  into  the  square  and  stopped  her 
mule. 

"  Eccola  qua!  "  said  Roberto,  sticking  his  elbow  into  Ale- 
jandro's ribs.  "Really,  a  beauty!  Let's  help  her  to  get  off 
her  mule." 

"  Go  on!  You'll  find  that  she  has  one  of  those  heads  you 
have  admired  a  hundred  times  in  the  canvases  of  the  Venetian 
masters." 

Roberto  went  over  near  her  and  admired  the  elegance  of 
her  tall  well-built  figure  and  the  beautiful  neck  with  its 
sculptural  curves.  Her  features  had  a  rhythm  of  lines  in 
which  one  could  see  a  lack  of  thoughts  and  worries,  and  her 
eyes  had  the  placidity  of  those  of  a  doe.  Her  mouth,  through 
which  flitted  a  disdainful  smile,  was  very  enticing  and  charm- 
ing. 

"  Alessandro!  Alessandro!  Cuanto  e  bella  la  tua  terra, 
ma  e  terribile!  *  Precipices!  Precipices!  I  was  crying,  cry- 
ing .  .  ."  said  Madame  Rondinelli,  looking  at  Roberto  with 
her  eyes  distended  by  fear.  "  This  is  a  treacherous  mule.  At 
last  I  am  on  firm  ground !  Oh !  Malatesta  e  cascato  per  terra 
tre  volte,  ed  io  rideva  ha!  ha!  ha!  "  and  she  walked  over  to  the 
inn  arm  in  arm  with  Alejandro. 

Panting,  she  threw  her  hat  to  one  side.  Roberto,  following 
her,  observed  the  unconscious  arrogance  and  haughtiness  of  her 
movements,  the  wide  gestures  in  which  her  enormous  red  shawl 
waved  like  a  rich  purple  mantle  and  fell  in  wide  folds  that 
reminded  one  of  the  attitudes  of  a  tragedian.  As  she  spoke 
to  Alejandro,  in  empty  chatter,  she  moved  her  head,  showing  off 
the  sculptural  curves  of  her  neck.  Over  the  warm  whiteness 
of  her  skin  floated  little  locks,  rebellious  rings  with  amber 
glints  and  flashes  of  flames,  and  a  magnificent  tress,  rising  from 
the  back  of  the  neck,  twisted  and  curled  itself  up  on  top  of 
the  head. 

1  Italian:  Alexander!  How  beautiful  your  country  is,  but  how  aw- 
ful! [Four  lines  later]  Oh!  Malatesta  fell  to  the  ground  three  times, 
and  how  I  laughed! 


HAPPENINGS  AT  THE  INN  57 

They  crossed  the  square,  and  when  they  reached  the  shadow 
of  the  inn,  the  noise  of  horses  hoofs  coming  from  the  road 
made  them  turn  round. 

A  very  thin  individual,  of  livid  face  and  lusterless  eyes, 
sweating  and  wearing  a  velvet  waistcoat  and  very  long  hair,  ar- 
rived at  the  inn. 

"  Alejandro,"  said  Roberto  in  ironical  tones,  pointing  towards 
the  new  arrival,  "  let  me  introduce  you  to  the  poet  Mata,  editor 
of  La  Pagoda  de  Nietzsche;  one  of  our  notables  .  .  .  one  of 
Colombia's  hopes  ..." 

"Thanks,  thanks,"  said  Mata  alighting,  "thanks;  only  one 
little  volume  of  Nitroglicerinas  which  have  been  quoted  in  all 
the  American  papers,  including  La  Abeja,  of  Tehuantepec.  If 
you  insist,"  he  added  with  a  frown  of  inspiration,  "  I  will  re- 
cite to  you  my  verses  of  the  last  number  of  La  Pagoda.  I'll 
go  over  the  last  verses,  the  ones  that  have  been  applauded 
most. 

"  I  would  like,  in  my  tomb,  under  lotus  buds, 
To   drink   the   shadow   among   mummies  of   immovable   eyes." 

"  My  friend,"  interrupted  Alejandro  very  much  annoyed, 
"  you  so  young,  yet  thinking  of  death?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  Death  is  my  beloved,  my  eternal  sweetheart,  as 
I  say  in  my  next  volume:  Amor  Dionisiaco"  and  he  con- 
tinued : 

"  Let,  then,  my  corpse  be  covered  with  the  sands  of  the  Nubian 

Strand,  like  the  pleats  of  a  fair  shroud, 

And  instead  of  priests  of  hypocritical  sighs, 

Let    raucous    bonzes    read    their    prayers    from    their    papyri." 

He  halted. 

"Ah!  a  great  idea!  .  .  .  I'll  leave  this  poem  right  here,  in 
the  album  of  El  Consuelo.  .  .  .  Here,  landlady,  bring  me  the 
album!  "  and  he  wrote  down: 

"  To  my  unforgettable  friend  General  Landaburo,  whom  I 
came  to  meet  on  an  important  political  mission: 


"  Instead  of  a  cross  and  a  Latin  inscription,  I  want  magnificent 
Signs  on  my  gravestone  with  yellow  hieroglyphics. 


58  PAX 

Instead  of  the  requiescat,   in   Gothic  characters, 
I  want  the  suggestive  demotic  characters.  .  .  ." 

When  he  finished  writing,  taking  advantage  of  a  moment 
when  no  one  was  looking,  he  took  out  a  little  syringe,  pulled  up 
one  leg  of  his  trousers,  and  closing  his  eyes  and  biting  his 
lip  with  pain,  he  injected  some  morphia  into  his  calf. 

As  he  bent  down,  Mata  dropped  some  printed  sheets  from 
his  pocket.  Roberto  picked  them  up:  they  were  the  proofs  of 
La  Pagoda  de  Nietzsche,  with  an  account  of  the  "  splendid  and 
popular  "  reception  of  General  Landaburo  at  El  Consuelo.  .  - 

"Look  here,"  said  Roberto  to  Alejandro,  "here  we  have 
the  account  of  a  meeting.  A  meeting  with  speeches  and  every- 
thing, right  in  this  place,  to-day,  a  meeting  that  has  not  taken 
and  never  will  take  place.  ...  Ah,  Landaburo  and  Mata  .  .  . 
that's  a  fine  couple  for  you.  .  .  .  See,  the  poet  is  now  in  the 
next  room,  nailing  Landaburo's  photo  on  the  wall  with  the  help 
of  Escipion  Socarraz." 

The  Sisters  of  Charity  arrived  and  crossed  the  square. 
Gonzalez  Mogollon  went  forward  to  meet  them. 

Alejandro  was  seized  by  a  deep  emotion  and  became  very 
gloomy. 

"  Is  that  sister,  so  young  and  distinguished,"  asked  Roberto, 
"the  little  marchioness  of  Montemar?  " 

And  Roberto  admired  the  tall  figure,  the  queenly  carriage, 
the  ascetic  paleness,  the  fascination  of  her  blue  pupils,  the 
imperturbable  calmness  of  eternity  that  was  revealed  by  her 
whole  person. 

Roberto  was  going  to  continue,  but  he  was  interrupted  by  a 
tremendous  racket. 

"  Hurrah  for  General  Landaburo!  "  shouted  Mata  when  he 
heard  the  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs  in  the  court.  On  hearing  him 
shout,  all  the  travelers  came  out  and  they  beheld  a  man  of  mili- 
tary aspect  with  gauntlets  and  riding  boots,  seated  on  a  red 
velvet  saddle  with  yellow  fringed  trappings  and  pistol  cases. 
He  rode  a  horse  who  wagged  his  tail  furiously  as  he  felt  the 
spurs  on  his  sides  and  from  whose  mouth  issued  blood-tinged 
foam. 

"  Hurrah  for  the  immortal  Landaburo !  "  yelled  Socarraz. 

The  horseman  twirled  his  mustache  nervously,  sat  up  straight 


HAPPENINGS  AT  THE  INN  59 

on  his  saddle  in  a  heroic  pose  and  cast  a  conqueror's  glance  on 
the  group  composed  of  gentlemen,  chorus  people,  Sisters  of 
Charity,  servants  and  grooms. 

"  General  Landaburo!  "  exclaimed  Mata,  coming  forward 
with  a  glass  in  his  hand  and  running  an  imminent  risk  of  be- 
ing squashed  to  death  by  the  restless  horse,  "  allow  me,  in  the 
name  of  La  Pagoda  de  Nietzsche  and  of  the  Revaluation,  to  offer 
you  this  glass  of  welcome.  .  .  .  Hurrah  for  the  hero  of  our 
ideal!  Hurrah  for  the  eminent  republican!  Hurrah  for  the 
scourge  of  Cesarism!  Hurrah  for  the  terror  of  the  grafters! 
Hurrah  for  the  future  founder  of  the  Republican  party  of  the 
Revaluation!  " 

Landaburo  tried  to  calm  his  steed,  accommodated  himself 
in  the  saddle,  threw  out  his  chest,  extended  his  hand,  in 
which  shone  a  silver  handled  whip,  made  a  sweeping  gesture, 
smiled,  fixed  his  eyes  far  away,  as  if  he  had  a  sea  of  heads 
in  front  of  him,  and  began  to  speak  as  if  he  were  at  a 
review. 

"Soldiers!  .  .  .  I  mean  citizens,  and  ladies: 

"  I  can  see  in  your  moist  eyes  the  satisfaction  you  feel  at 
finding  me  once  again  in  your  midst,  after  a  year  or  more  of 
absence  from  this  country,  which  I  would  call  Mother  country, 
although  here  our  rights  are  denied  us,  our  rights  which  we 
should  never  let  sink  into  oblivion. 

"I  am  addressing  you  at  this  time,  although  we  are  with 
the  foot  in  the  stirrup,  so  to  speak,  because  it  would  appear 
very  strange  that  a  man  of  my  fame,  and  who  has  rendered 
such  invaluable  services  to  the  great  cause  of  the  Revaluation, 
should  pass  by  without  a  word  to  those  who,  without  distinc- 
tion of  race  or  nationality,  are  listening  to  me  so  courteously. 
It  would  be  an  unpardonable  sin  on  my  part,  and  one  for 
which  I  would  never  forgive  myself,  should  I  not  address  a 
few  words  to  the  neutral  and  passive  masses  that  are  listening 
to  me  and  that  live  in  a  continual  struggle  for  their  daily 
bread,  born  for  and  living  in  servitude,  like  feudal  children 
of  the  glebe,  at  this  period  of  exclusivism  when  the  policy 
of  the  closed  door  rules  the  land.  Yes,  although  the  supporters 
of  the  government  and  the  government  themselves  live  in  Asiatic 
luxury,  dressed  in  silk  that  costs  five  hundred  dollars  a  yard, 
while  you  have  only  a  few  tatters  to  cover  your  flesh;  although 


60  PAX 

they  dwell  in  opulent  palaces  while  you  live  in  miserable  hovels, 
I  advise  you,  as  a  matter  of  prudence,  to  live  in  and  for  peace, 
and  to  preach  it  to  the  four  winds." 

The  people  at  the  inn,  standing  in  single  file,  listened  to 
the  harangue,  some  with  surprise,  some  with  curiosity,  some 
with  astonishment,  some  with  amusement. 

"  I  know  for  a  fact,"  added  Landaburo,  "  that  my  appearing 
speaking  of  peace,  like  Charles  Albert  of  Savoy,  with  his  sword 
in  its  sheath,  will  swell  with  pride  the  flunkeys  of  the  govern- 
ment; I  know  for  a  fact  that  the  iniquity  of  article  22  with 
its  frightful  paragraph,  will  not  be  admitted;  I  know  for  a 
fact  that  we  will  continue  to  be  denied  our  share  of  sun,  air 
and  water;  I  know  for  a  fact  that,  forgetting  the  blood  I  have 
shed  in  all  the  Departments,  they  will  continue  to  mock  at 
my  chiriquiteno  or  chirequitano  origin,  as  they  say.  Never 
mind!  Let  us  continue  to  bear,  for  the  sake  of  peace,  the  iron 
heel  on  our  necks.  Long  live  peace!  For  when  in  the  clock 
of  the  nations  the  white  hour  of  freedom  strikes,  there  will  al- 
ways be  found  among  the  ashes  a  few  dying  embers  that 
gathered  together  and  blown  mightily  will  burst  into  a  flame 
that  will  be  like  the  dawn  of  better  days. 

"  I  advise  peace  so  that  we  shall  not  throw  any  more  human 
victims  into  the  hungry  maw  of  the  hydra  of  war.  The  hour 
of  the  Revolution  has  not  dawned  yet.  Long  live  peace! 
Convinced  already  of  the  uselessness  of  recrimination,  let  us  cast 
water  on  our  camp  fires  and  let  us  fill  our  soldiers  kits,  not 
with  bullets  but  with  articles  for  export." 

"  Long  live  peace!  " 

"  I,  who  have  always  been  the  first  man  to  seize  a  rifle  and 
the  one  to  fire  the  last  shot,  I  feel  that  I  have  enough  author- 
ity to  preach  peace.  The  last  disastrous  and  devastating  revo- 
lution was  a  tremendous  object  lesson  to  show  the  country  what 
war  is.  To  me  belongs  the  honor,  by  no  means  small  and 
which  you  certainly  won't  deny  me,  of  having  completely  dis- 
credited revolutions." 

"  Long  live  peace!  " 

Gonzalez  Mogollon  did  not  lose  a  syllable;  he  was  deeply 
moved,  and  stood  at  Landaburo's  feet,  blew  his  nose  loudly, 
dried  his  tears,  jumping  back  and  forth  and  turning  about  so 
as  to  avoid  the  horse's  caracoling. 


GLORY  AND  GRIEF  61 

"  General,"  he  exclaimed,  "  you  have  stirred  me.  I  invite 
you  this  very  moment  to  lay  the  cornerstone  of  the  Teaching 
Hospital.  A  magnificent  work;  the  plans  were  drawn  up  by 
Doctor  Karlonoff.  And  you  must  make  me  another  speech  like 
this  one,  with  plenty  of  peace  in  it  ...  plenty  of  harmony,  and 
respect  for  authority.  ..." 

Then,  turning  toward  Robert  and  Alejandro  with  a  certain 
air  of  reproach: 

"Well,  friends,  why  don't  you  applaud?  Now  we're  really 
assured  of  peace  for  twenty  years." 

As  the  torrent  of  words  continued  to  pour  forth  in  the  yard,  La 
Rondinelli  asked  Roberto,  in  a  low  voice: 

"Who  is  speaking?  ...  I  don't  understand.  ...  A  tooth- 
puller?  ...  Is  he  selling  patent-medicines?  ...  A  wander- 
ing doctor?  .  .  .  Some  tippler?  Or  a  big  gossip?" 

"  A  wily  politician,  senorita." 


CHAPTER  VI 

GLORY   AND    GRIEF 

"  GOOD-BY,  Roberto." 

"  Good-by,  Faust." 

"I'll  expect  you  at  the  Bicontinental.  Then  we'll  take  in 
the  opera;  they're  giving  Werther;  don't  forget." 

Alejandro  left. 

The  huge  key  turned  in  the  lock,  the  door  creaked  and 
Roberto  entered  his  family's  old  manse,  which  for  months  had 
been  unoccupied;  he  crossed  the  outer  vestibule  and  found  the 
yard  invaded  by  grass,  and  some  sparrows,  like  the  proprietors 
of  the  place,  flying  from  the  garden  to  the  entablature  of  the 
colonnade.  To  the  left  of  the  low  corridor,  wide  and  solid, 
and  constructed  as  if  it  were  to  be  mounted  with  courtly  delibera- 
tion, there  spread  the  stone  staircase.  From  the  wall  to  <the 
high  balustrade  stretched  spiders'  webs. 

In  the  center  of  the  garden  the  grotesque  mask  of  the 
fountain,  as  usual,  was  belching  gushes  of  water  into  the 
stone  basin;  amid  the  solitude  of  the  patio  it  seemed  that  the 


62  PAX 

water  was  sobbing  and  weeping  at  the  desertion  of  the 
owners. 

Endeavoring  to  combat  his  gloomy  feelings,  he  mounted  the 
staircase  with  assumed  nonchalance,  crossed  the  wide  corridor 
and  penetrated  into  the  obscurity  of  the  spacious  salon,  which 
was  hung  with  a  double  row  of  family  portraits, —  the  ancestral 
canvases,  which  loomed  from  the  dark  background,  whereon 
glittered  the  Avilas'  thirteen  blue  bezants  against  a  field  of 
gold.  He  had  come  to  take  down  these  paintings  before  de- 
livering the  house  to  its  new  owners;  he  stopped  for  a  mo- 
ment to  contemplate  them  and  imagined  that  he  could  feel  the 
proud  faces  gazing  down  upon  him  with  a  look  of  resentment 
and  astonishment.  They  had  been  there  for  years  and  years, 
motionless  in  their  gold  frames,  forming  part  of  the  family 
and  serving  as  an  example  to  successive  generations.  He  ap- 
proached the  first  portrait:  the  companion  of  the  Catholic 
Monarchs,  the  founder  of  the  family.  As  he  removed  it, 
Roberto,  with  mingled  feelings  of  love  and  sadness,  read  the  in- 
scription once  more:  "  Don  Pedro  Avila.  Lord  of  the  states  of 
las  Navas  and  Villafranca,  vassal  of  the  king  and  of  his 
Council,  first  Count  of  Risco  and  of  Cadahalso,  fought  in  the 
battle  of  Albufera  against  Portugal.  Took  Cadahalso  by  force 
of  arms,  for  which  the  monarchs  gave  him  the  title.  He  served 
personally  and  with  his  followers  in  the  capture  of  Granada." 

Roberto,  fascinated  afresh  by  the  brilliancy  of  the  warrior's 
array  stood  in  contemplation;  the  Count  was  represented  as 
standing,  clad  in  half  armor;  the  helmet,  adorned  with  crim- 
son plumes,  was  placed  upon  a  small  table  covered  with 
scarlet  velvet.  To  this  martial  outfit  was  added  a  coat  of  mail, 
red  embroidered  breeches,  white  buckskin  boots,  with  spurs. 
Roberto  removed  the  portrait  and  placed  it  upon  the  floor.  He 
passed  to  the  next.  The  soldier  of  Quesada:  Alonso  Avila  y 
Cabrera,  who,  in  his  iron  costume  stood  erect  on  the  canvas 
with  both  hands  resting  upon  the  hilt  of  his  sword.  His  eyes 
glanced  defiantly  from  under  the  steel  of  the  helmet. 

Don  Miguel  de  Avila  y  Arevalo,  wrapped  in  his  black 
toga,  against  which  stood  out  the  cross  of  the  Order;  his  face 
framed  in  his  wig;  his  hand  placed  against  some  yellow  parch- 
ments. Down  from  the  wall  he  came,  too.  The  fourth: 
Doctor  Melchior  de  Avila  y  Castillo,  Fiscal  of  Guatemala, 


GLORY  AND  GRIEF  63 

whence  he  came  and  progressed  to  the  post  of  Oidor  of  Santafe, 
in  1702.  As  Roberto  took  this  painting  from  the  wall  a  nail 
made  a  wide  rent  in  the  toga;  he  thought  he  could  hear  a  groan 
as  the  canvas  tore,  and  with  a  vague  fear  carefully  put  the  por- 
trait to  one  side,  irresolute  and  shaken.  There  remained  ten 
portraits  and  it  seemed  that  one  after  the  other  they  asked  him : 
"  Why  are  you  throwing  us  out?  "  And  he,  without  removing 
his  eyes,  wishing  that  they  might  understand  him,  thought  in 
reply:  "  It  is  not  my  fault." 

Whereupon  there  came  to  his  mind  the  chain  of  events  that 
had  at  last  compelled  him  to  surrender  the  paternal  mansion. 

With  that  clarity  with  which  the  past  flares  up  in  critical 
moments,  there  appeared  to  him  the  ruin  of  the  Avilas'  vast 
fortune,  brought  about  by  political  overturns  and  successive 
revolutions. 

His  grandfather,  Don  Cristobal,  had  received  the  inheritance 
intact:  fertile  estates  that  bore  the  names  of  battles  in  which 
the  family's  founder  had  figured :  El  Risco,  Villafranca,  la  Sa- 
bana;  Las  Navas,  Cadahalso, —  with  extensive  tracts  upon  the 
river  Magdalena.  Don  Cristobal  encumbered  his  property  to 
aid  the  government,  which  had  been  attacked  by  three  distinct 
revolutions.  In  the  last  one  the  revolutionists  triumph,  im- 
pose contributions  upon  him,  expel  him  from  the  country,  and 
he  dies  in  exile,  an  octogenarian,  amid  poverty  and  privation. 

His  father,  educated  in  England  and  possessing  aristocratic, 
literary  and  artistic  tastes,  denies  his  calling  and  learns  many 
industries.  He  goes  to  Cuba,  to  Yucatan;  he  acquires  capital, 
machinery,  hires  laborers;  he  installs  himself  in  the  estates  upon 
the  Magdalena,  and  just  when  fortune  is  beginning  to  smile  upon 
him,  when  he  has  erected  sugar  mills,  tobacco  factories,  and 
has  developed  the  cultivation  and  exploitation  of  textile  plants, 
.  .  .  war  breaks  out,  burning,  demolishing,  ruining  every- 
thing. 

Going  back  now  to  the  earliest  of  his  personal  recollections, 
almost  lost  in  the  haze  of  his  childhood,  Roberto  sees  himself 
one  night  on  the  estate  of  El  Risco,  with  his  mother  and  his  sister 
Elisa,  then  yet  an  infant. 

Outside  there  is  suddenly  heard  the  clash  of  arms;  the 
terrified  servants  give  the  alarm;  he  is  dressed  hurriedly,  his 
mother  takes  the  infant  in  her  arms,  they  climb  a  hill,  cross 


64  PAX 

the  wild  passes,  take  refuge  in  a  hut,  and  at  daybreak  be- 
hold the  soldiers  gather  all  the  cattle  of  the  farm,  force  the 
animals  out  onto  the  road  and  drive  them  in  the  direction  of 
Bogota.  The  government,  as  he  learned  later,  had  in  this 
manner  collected  a  war  contribution  that  had  been  imposed 
upon  his  widowed  mother  and  which  she  had  been  unable  to 
pay.  His  mother's  face  came  to  him,  with  its  seal  of  ineradic- 
able melancholy,  —  her  kind,  sad  eyes,  which  all  at  once,  with- 
out cause,  became  moist  with  tears,  as  if  her  thoughts  were 
ever  centered  upon  her  misfortune.  He  could  behold,  too,  the 
outburst  of  tears  that  had  occurred  when  she  had  been  forced 
to  sell  the  estates  in  order  to  pay  the  debts,  which  had  been 
increased  by  the  interest  of  many  years. 

Roberto,  too,  had  wished  to  work,  even  to  redeem  the  former 
family  home,  and  had  gone  off  to  a  mountain,  the  sole  remnant 
of  the  vast  territorial  fortune.  With  infinite  effort,  assuming 
new  debts,  he  had  overcome  the  mountain  and  started  a  planta- 
tion of  coffee  trees.  But  war,  with  its  sinister  regularity,  had 
appeared.  It  was  then  that  he  served  in  his  first  campaign,  un- 
der General  Ronderos.  Returning  to  the  capital,  he  found 
there  the  joy  and  the  honors  of  victory,  and  also  received  news 
that  the  revolutionists  had  bivouacked  for  months  and  months 
on  his  plantations. 

At  that  moment  it  had  come  to  him  that  it  was  for  him  to 
perform  the  definitive  liquidation, —  that  he  alone  must  re- 
ceive the  blow  of  the  collapse. 

He  must  witness,  dispiritedly  and  lacking  all  strength  for 
the  struggle,  the  final  scene  of  the  shipwreck.  Of  the  royal 
legacy,  despite  all  efforts  to  preserve  it,  there  remained  only 
this  fragment,  this  house  which  he  was  going  to  transfer  that 
very  afternoon,  and  with  the  loss  of  which  he  beheld  the 
splendor  of  the  Avilas  vanish  forever. 

Upon  the  portrait  that  lay  nearest  his  feet  he  read  again 
the  motto  Glory  and  Grief,  and  it  occurred  to  him  that  surely 
that  had  been  more  grief  than  glory. 

Overcome  at  last  by  the  gloominess  that  he  had  been  trying 
to  shake  off,  he  sank  into  an  armchair,  rested  his  head  against 
the  brocaded  back  and  dropped  his  hands  languidly  .upon  the 
carved  arms.  He  glanced  at  the  portraits  that  lay  upon  the 
floor:  "  There  is  Don  Pedro  Avila,  the  first  of  the  family  .  .  . 


GLORY  AND  GRIEF  65 

and  I  am  the  last!  He  founded  the  house;  ...  I  have  come 
to  deliver  into  the  hands  of  another  "  (and  he  smiled  bitterly). 
"  These  first  two  men  were  persons  with  red  blood  and  will 
power,  men  of  action,  who,  for  their  energy  and  ambition,  found 
a  world  of  Moors  to  combat,  a  world  of  Indians  to  conquer." 

His  eyes  wandered  sadly  along  the  row  of  gowned  celebrities, 
judges  and  fiscals.  ..."  They,  too,  discovered  for  their  imag- 
inations and  their  chivalrous  sentiments  a  world  of  adventure 
and  love  in  the  romantic  life  of  colonial  days;  for  the  exercise 
of  their  gifts  they  found  the  viceroyalty:  the  education  of  a 
people,  the  formation  of  a  nation,  the  organization  of  a  govern- 
ment. These  two  last  persons  witnessed  the  struggle  for  In- 
dependence and  its  attainment:  they  had  a  fatherland  to  make 
great  and  free.  The  one  was  a  companion  of  Narifio  in  the 
southern  campaigns;  the  other,  the  constant  friend  of  Sucre; 
both  had  scorned  titles  and  colonial  honors.  All  of  these  men 
were  born  into  heroic  epochs,  worthy  of  great  efforts.  The 
iron  conquistadores,  through  the  generations,  bequeathed  to  me 
drops  of  proud,  adventurous  blood;  these  gowned  dignitaries,  a 
taste  for  courtly  refinements  and  their  mystic  aspirations;  the 
heroes  of  the  struggle  for  Independence,  their  love  for  great 
things  and  affection  for  this  piece  of  earth ;  and  all  this  former 
glory,  all  these  aspirations  and  desires,  mingling  in  my  veins, 
merging  in  my  soul,  have  produced  as  their  final  offshoot,  at 
the  end  of  all  the  generations,  a  meditative,  vacillating,  con- 
tradictory spirit, —  a  neurotic,  complicated  scion.  The  swords 
became  rapiers,  and  with  the  effect  of  time  have  for  me  become 
converted  into  scalpels.  These  ancestors  of  mine  were  for- 
tunate enough  to  live  during  an  epoch  when  life  was  scorned 
and  people  struggled  for  glory.  ...  I  have  been  born  into  days 
when  it  is  glory  that  is  scorned,  and  the  struggle  is  for  existence: 
the  struggle  for  life! 

"  There  seethe  within  me  vaguely  and  confusedly,  ambi- 
tions and  desires  for  something  that  I  can't  define,  but  which 
I  shall  be  unable  to  realize;  aspirations  toward  something  that 
I  shall  never  discover;  I  wander  and  cast  aimlessly  about  in 
the  space  that  separates  this  world  of  greatness  that  has  been 
left  behind  from  this  world  and  prose  and  pettiness  that  sur- 
rounds me. 

"  And  for  this  sort  of  struggle,  for  deceit  and  artifice,  for 


66  PAX 

this  petty  prose,  I  am  utterly  incapable;  I'm  alien  to  it.  ... 
I  haven't  the  aptitude  nor  the  power  to  fight  against  a  Landaburo 
or  an  Alcon;  I'm  one  of  yesterday's  defeated;  I  battle  without 
faith,  without  enthusiasm;  the  very  impulse  of  ambition  is  born 
in  me  with  the  quiver  of  defeat, —  initiative  rises  companioned 
by  the  certainty  of  failure, —  illusion,  with  the  instinct  of  dis- 
aster, and  desire  with  the  previous  knowledge  of  disillusion- 
ment. .  .  ." 

He  arose  and  tore  himself  away  from  the  spot,  to  escape  from 
those  fixed  glances  and  to  scatter  his  own  thoughts.  In  the 
corridors  his  imagination  brought  to  life  familiar  scenes  of 
other  days ;  the  old  manse  was  filled  anew  with  persons ;  Roberto 
could  see  his  mother  come  through  the  door, —  the  old  servants 
walking  along  the  passageways, —  Aunt  Indalecia  (who  had 
died  twenty  years  before)  with  her  huge  shell-comb,  her  ker-  / 
chief  crossed  over  her  bosom,  watering  her  flowers;  finally  he 
saw  a  little  boy  running  hither  and  thither  everywhere,  happy, 
breathless,  caressed  by  all,  and  he  told  himself  gloomily  that 
he  was  that  little  boy.  How  much  had  happened  since  then! 
How  distant  were  those  days  of  games  and  caresses!  How 
far  away  had  those  beloved  faces  gone !  ...  In  the  solitude  of 
the  patio  the  water,  with  its  monotonous,  plaintive  song,  be- 
moaned the  desertion  of  the  masters.  Across  the  way,  the 
dining  room,  once  so  bustling  with  life  during  the  meal  hours, 
and  redolent  with  the  aroma  of  chocolate  served  in  silver  cups. 
To  the  left  he  beheld,  with  its  wall-paper  of  floral  design  and 
his  mother's  needlework,  the  little  bedroom  where,  at  the  age  of 
ten,  he  had  awaked  one  morning  after  an  attack  of  pneumonia, 
beholding  his  mother  bent  over  him  with  tear-filled  eyes,  lav- 
ishing passionate  kisses  upon  him.  In  one  nook  of  the  patio 
he  recognized  the  favorite  spot,  now  unoccupied,  of  Maraton, 
the  loyal  Newfoundland  dog,  who  was  so  sullen  with  others, 
and  so  docile  and  affectionate  with  him,  and  could  vision 
those  large  eyes  out  of  which  shone  an  almost  human  tender- 
ness. 

He  remembered  how,  while  he  would  play  with  the  dog, 
his  mother  would  entertain  herself  by  throwing  down  to  him 
white  roses  from  the  bush  which,  scaling  the  walls,  wound  it- 
self in  and  out  among  the  banisters  of  the  little  balcony.  Now 
all  was  solitude,  all  was  forsaken,  silent,  only  in  the  stone 


GLORY  AND  GRIEF  67 

basin  the  water  continued  to  murmur  in  notes  of  muffled  sad- 
ness. 

Two  loud  knocks  resounded  upon  the  door.  Roberto  went 
down.  It  was  Montellano,  whose  body  darkened  the  vestibule 
with  its  bulk.  He  wore  a  costly  new  overcoat  which  still  re- 
vealed the  creases  of  its  Parisian  package,  a  shining  silk  hat 
which  had  not  yet  conformed  to  the  shape  of  his  head;  around 
his  neck  a  silk  handkerchief  secured  by  a  solid  gold  pin,  and 
on  his  feet  the  same  shoes  that  he  had  worn  during  the  voyage, 
stained  with  gray  cakes  of  mud. 

As  Montellano  advanced  his  daughter  became  visible;  she 
was  dressed  in  black.  Roberto  felt  a  deep  pleasure  at  meet- 
ing once  more  the  traveling  guest  of  El  Consuelo,  and  he  ad- 
mired anew  those  deeply  expressive  eyes  that  shone  from  out 
of  the  black  lace  shawl. 

"  Senorita  .  .  .  Seiior  don  Ramon,  I  was  waiting  for 
you." 

While  Montellano  walked  on  without  further  ceremony, 
Roberto  offered  his  hand  to  Dolores  as  they  mounted  the  stair- 
case, which  she  ascended  with  a  firm  step,  with  a  certain 
triumphant  air,  and  a  flash  of  determination  in  her  eyes. 

"  The  house  is  a  solid  structure,"  commented  Montellano, 
panting  from  the  effort  of  the  ascent,  in  the  meantime  striking 
right  and  left  with  his  cane,  so  powerfully  that  the  wall  was 
defaced.  They  entered  the  hall,  and  Montellano,  stumbling 
against  the  furniture  and  the  scattered  portraits,  made  his  way 
to  the  windows,  which  he  opened  noisily.  A  flood  of  light 
inundated  the  salon.  Dolores,  tingling  with  curiosity,  flitted 
hither  and  thither,  sinking  her  heels  into  the  thick  carpet,  gaz- 
ing into  the  mirrors  that  sent  back  her  enlarged  image  from 
greenish  depths,  as  if  from  the  bottom  of  a  lake;  stroking  the 
damask  of  the  red  hangings  with  delight,  passing  her  palms 
across  the  scarlet  brocade  of  the  chair  backs;  at  length  she  sank 
into  the  high  armchair  and  from  her  seat,  with  child-like  wonder 
she  admired  the  long  row  of  portraits  that  seemed  to  follow 
her  with  that  same  acute,  penetrating  glance  that  Roberto 
had  noticed  when  he  first  looked  upon  them. 

"  Papa,  how  rare  and  old  all  of  this  is,"  said  Dolores.  "  Did 
you  buy  this,  too?  How  could  the  women  ever  have  sat  in 
such  high  chairs  as  these?  " 


68  PAX 

"  I'm  going  to  fill  the  place  with  completely  new  furniture, 
and  none  of  these  faded  curtains,  either,"  continued  Montel- 
lano.  "  I'll  have  everything  lined  with  velvet.  This  place 
looks  like  a  sacristy  and  makes  you  afraid  to  talk  loud  in  it. 
But  I'll  buy  it,  lock,  stock  and  barrel."  And  turning  to 
Roberto,  who,  was  biting  his  lips  impatiently  and  nervously: 

"  Friend  Avila,  will  you  sell  it  to  me?  " 

Roberto  had  been  noting  how  ill  Montellano's  body,  which 
seemed  to  have  been  hewn  out  with  an  ax,  harmonized  with  this 
seigniorial  environment  of  faded  and  soft  objects;  his  brick- 
colored  face;  his  stentorian  voice,  habituated  to  the  immensity 
of  the  plains  and  the  solitude  of  the  woods;  his  brusque  move- 
ments; his  way  of  carrying  himself,  and  his  heavy  breathing; 
his  rustic  gestures.  His  feet,  accustomed  to  moving  freely  amid 
stones  and  tree-trunks,  put  his  shoes  out  of  shape;  his  hairy 
hand,  as  it  pointed  to  various  objects,  clutched  and  brandished 
a  huge  cane. 

"  Let's  proceed  to  another  room,"  suggested  Roberto. 

And  ascending  and  descending  staircases,  opening  leather 
screens;  passing  through  many  doorways,  some  very  narrow 
and  others  very  wide,  crossing  dark  passageways,  running  here 
and  there  about  the  dismantled  and  deserted  dwelling,  they 
went  from  room  to  room. 

"  Here,"  observed  Montellano,  "  is  where  I  can  have  my 
office;  there  must  be  more  light;  your  rooms  can  be  over  here. 
This  window  must  be  changed,  the  banister  must  be  removed, 
the  wide  corridor  must  have  windows  set  into  the  wall  .  .  . 
h'm  .  .  .  h'm  .  .  .  this  is  going  to  cost  a  fortune." 

They  left  the  top  floor  and  descended  to  the  garden,  which 
was  of  ample  dimensions. 

Montellano,  with  his  face  turned  toward  the  wall,  his  arms 
spread  so  as  to  hold  the  cane  at  both  ends,  was  engrossed  in 
walking  along  the  wall,  taking  its  measure. 

"  One,  two,  three  .  .  .  six,  .  .  .  eight  .  .  .  ten." 

In  the  meantime  Roberto  and  Dolores  were  walking  amid 
the  rose  bushes. 

She  danced  happily  along  the  garden  paths,  as  if  in  her  ele- 
ment, admiring  the  flowers,  plucking  some,  expanding  her 
nostrils  with  delight  to  inhale  deeply  the  scent  of  the  pinks. 
At  times  she  felt  a  tug  at  her  skirt  or  at  her  mantilla,  and 


GLORY  AND  GRIEF  69 

with  eyes  that  betokened  terror,  while  her  lips  parted  in 
laughter,  she  cast  her  glance  and  her  body  backward,  as 
Roberto  released  her  from  the  clutches  of  some  rose-bush  which, 
like  a  lover,  seemingly  desired  to  detain  her. 

In  the  flower-beds  there  is  a  profusion  of  awkward  malvar- 
rosa  stems,  crowned  by  flowers  of  a  luminous  red;  old  rose- 
bushes with  shrub-like  trunks,  green  leaves  and  purple  shoots; 
white  lilies,  geraniums  that  glow  like  burning  coals,  floating  in 
waves  of  foliage;  clumps  of  pinks,  fuchsias  that  hang  like  large 
drops  of  blood,  lilies  like  alabaster  vases;  and  on  the  ground, 
overflowing  the  beds,  the  milky  furrows  of  the  lilacs.  Above 
the  flowers  leans  an  evergreen  papaw-tree  and  an  orange-tree, 
whose  leaves  are  dimmed  and  stiffened  by  cobwebs. 

"Why,  look,  papa!  There  are  even  medicinal  plants  her«: 
alder,  balm-gentle,  mint,  sweet-basil." 

Don  Ramon,  impassive,  speaking  to  himself,  continued  to 
take  measurements  with  his  cane,  and  wrote  down  numbers  upon 
his  shirt-cuffs. 

"  We'll  have  to  cut  down  all  this  rubbish.  I'm  going  to 
transfer  the  staircase  to  the  center,  and  add  two  shops  extend- 
ing to  the  rear  of  the  house.  I'll  speak  to  Doctor  Karlonoff 
about  it;  he's  an  engineer  that  was  highly  recommended  to 
me  by  Doctor  Alcon." 

"  And  this  darling  rose-bush  that  winds  about  the  balcony!  " 
exclaimed  Dolores,  enchanted. 

At  the  edge  of  the  garden-wall  there  arose,  clutching  at  all 
the  cracks,  the  stems  of  an  old  rose-bush  that  twined  its 
branches  around  the  banisters  of  a  high  balcony  and  covered 
the  frame  with  a  leafy  pavilion.  Against  the  dark  green  back- 
ground stood  out,  like  a  constellation,  Castilian  roses,  so  pale 
that  they  seemed  to  be  dying  of  homesickness.  As  the  wind 
breathed  upon  them,  they  shuddered  with  a  feminine  tremor 
and  exhaled  from  their  snow-white  chalices  an  aristocratic 
aroma,  an  aroma  that  seemed  to  come  from  bygone  centuries. 
Roberto  stepped  forward,  plucked  a  few  roses  and  offered  them 
to  Montellano's  daughter. 

"  These  roses,"  he  explained,  "  have  a  history  all  their  own. 
In  the  seventeenth  century  there  came  from  Castile,  Dona 
Agueda  de  Leon,  the  wife  of  the  Judge  de  Avila;  the  Spanish 
lady  was  grieved  to  leave  her  native  land,  and  in  remembrance 


yo  PAX 

of  it  brought  along  a  branch  of  this  rose-bush,  which  she 
watered  most  carefully  during  the  long  sea- voyage;  she  planted 
it  here,  and  when  it  had  grown,  the  greatest  solace  for  her 
longing  lay  in  her  breathing  the  perfume  of  these  flowers, 
in  which  she  breathed  the  perfume  of  her  fatherland.  On  the 
anniversaries  of  her  marriage  she  would  adorn  herself  with 
bouquets  of  these  flowers.  When  she  died  they  covered  her 
with  her  cherished  roses." 

"What  an  intresting  tale!  " 

"  As  the  house  and  the  rose-bush  now  belong  to  you,"  added 
Roberto,  his  face  clouding  with  sadness,  "  you  acquire  the  right 
to  wear  the  Castilian  roses  on  your  bridal  veil."  Dolores 
blushed,  fixing  her  large  dark  eyes  upon  him;  she  smiled,  sought 
for  a  reply,  but  remained  silent. 

During  all  this,  Montellano  kept  wandering  about  the  garden, 
making  his  calculations  in  a  loud  voice,  taking  measurements 
with  long,  even  strides.  He  struck  to  right  and  to  left,  scatter- 
ing flowers  all  about. 

"  This  thing  is  in  the  way,"  he  said,  approaching  the  rose- 
bush, and  through  force  of  habit  as  a  former  mountain  cutter 
he  frowned,  held  his  breath,  stepped  back,  clutched  the  handle 
of  the  cane  and  struck  the  rose-bush  a  formidable  blow. 

The  stem  quivered,  revealing  a  wide  gash;  the  branches 
creaked  gloomily,  the  twigs  trembled,  balanced  in  the  air,  as 
if  a  sensation  of  pain  had  coursed  through  their  veins,  and  a 
rain  of  white  petals  descended  upon  Dolores  and  Roberto. 

Roberto,  after  staring  at  the  coarse  fellow  with  the  concen- 
trated anger  and  scorn  of  ten  generations,  concealed  his  emo- 
tion with  a  dry,  guttural  laugh. 

"  Here  you  have  your  bridal  veil  already,  and  all  of  Cas- 
tilian roses,"  he  exclaimed,  softening  his  voice  and  turning  to 
the  maiden. 

"  Papa,  this  rose-bush  is  mine  and  I  wish  to  keep  it.  No- 
body must  take  it  away,"  she  added,  with  imperious  voice  and 
manner. 

Roberto,  bowing,  thanked  her  and  hastily  took  his  leave. 

Reaching  the  vestibule  he  paused,  undecided;  before  tearing 
himself  forth  from  the  place  he  wished  to  look  for  the  last 
time  upon  the  patio  of  the  paternal  house.  There  came  to  him, 
like  a  voice  bidding  farewell,  the  friendly  plaint  of  the  water 


CASTILIAN  ROSES  71 

in  the  basin  that  seemed  to  be  lamenting  the  desertion  of  its 
masters. 

In  the  street  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  family  escutcheon, 
chiselled  out  over  the  entrance.  On  the  stone,  decayed  and 
weatherbeaten,  he  could  make  out  the  old  inscription:  Glory 
and  Grief. 

CHAPTER  VII 

CASTILIAN   ROSES 

IN  her  little  sewing-room,  where  everything  is  spick  and 
span,  seated  upon  a  low  leather  chair,  Dona  Ana  is  knitting 
with  two  steel  needles  that  meet  and  cross  like  fencing  foils. 
Every  time  she  pulls  at  the  yarn  the  ball  on  the  floor  jumps,  and 
a  cat  lying  under  the  chair  catches  at  the  skein  of  wool. 
Through  the  window,  a  slanting  ray  of  the  setting  sun  comes 
to  illumine  that  countenance  which  is  covered  with  a  pallor  of 
suffering, —  a  deep,  resigned,  ineradicable  sadness, —  and  re- 
veals, against  the  dark  material  of  her  clothes  and  the  gloom  of 
the  room,  two  white  patches :  the  satin  of  her  hands  and  the  sil- 
ver of  her  hair.  Opposite  the  chair,  in  a  Florentine  frame,  is 
the  Dolorosa  by  Carlo  Dolce.  Elsewhere  on  the  wall  hangs  a 
pendulum  clock,  which  with  its  tick-tock  has  marked  the 
passing  of  a  few  happy  hours  and  of  many  sad  ones.  Upon  the 
various  tables  and  on  the  wall  there  keep  company  with  Dona 
Ana  objects  that  are  insignificant  to  a  stranger,  but  which 
speak  an  intimate  language  to  her,  crystallizing  several  dis- 
tinct epochs  of  her  life.  From  a  faded  daguerreotype  her  hus- 
band, who  has  been  dead  for  twenty  years,  smiles  at  her.  There, 
beneath  a  convex  glass,  is  the  lock  of  hair  given  by  her  when 
she  was  his  sweetheart;  a  black,  lustrous  lock  which  to- 
day, feeling  her  youth  so  remote  and  long  accustomed  to 
combing  her  gray  hair,  she  considers  as  having  been  cut  from 
another  person  altogether.  Nearer,  between  two  miniatures  of 
eighteenth-century  Spanish  dames  that  stand  pompously  out 
from  the  polished  ivory,  is  the  photograph  of  Roberto,  taken 
at  the  time  of  his  first  communion:  a  picture  now  yellow  with 
age,  with  the  features  dimmed,  showing  clearly  only  the  two 
black  spots  of  a  pair  of  staring,  affectionate  eyes. 


72  PAX 

At  intervals,  in  an  ecstasy  of  grief,  Dona  Ana  would  with  in- 
finite tenderness  let  her  gaze  rest  upon  the  picture  of  Elisa,  her 
daughter  who  had  died  at  the  age  of  eighteen;  it  was  the 
portrait  that  Alejandro  had  had  painted  in  Paris  by  a  Hun- 
garian artist,  Mme.  Parthagy;  against  the  gray  background 
the  brush  had  represented  the  girl's  bust  amid  a  glow  of  mel- 
ancholy light;  in  her  face  the  artist  had  combined  the  maiden's 
inner,  delicate  feeling  for  moral  beauty  with  the  harmonies 
of  form;  she  had  expressed  with  almost  religious  emotion  the 
sweetness  of  that  face,  upon  which  adolescence  and  suffering 
had  at  the  same  time  impressed  their  seal ;  over  the  delicate  linea- 
ments, over  the  chaste  forehead,  floated  a  delicate  pallor;  from 
her  deep  eyes  there  seemed  to  issue  a  dimmed  splendor  that 
radiated  to  all  the  lines  of  the  chaste  portrait. 

The  thoughts  that  passed  through  Dona  Ana's  mind  at  that 
moment  harmonized  with  the  somber  tints  of  the  afternoon;  she 
saw  about  her  the  canvases  that  had  been  discolored  by  the 
years,  here  and  there  touched  by  the  beam  of  the  setting  sun, — 
portraits  of  the  beloved  departed,  the  scattered  remnants  of  a 
greatness  that  had  crumbled  to  ruin,  all  that  had  been  and  that 
was  now  no  longer.  In  her  mourning  soul  there  commingled 
the  past  that  had  gone  and  this  afternoon  that  was  dying,  van- 
ishing in  the  same  dusk. 

The  last  beams  of  the  sun  are  caught  against  the  gilded 
carvings  of  a  table  and  the  projecting  edges  of  a  frame.  The 
ashes  of  the  afternoon  fall  upon  the  earth,  and  there  come  the 
quivering  tones  of  a  bell.  This  mystic,  plangent  voice  that 
goes  flying  from  belfry  to  belfry,  fills  the  room  with  sonorous 
melancholy  and  inundates  the  old  woman  in  waves  of  sadness. 
It  is  like  a  requiem  for  the  dead  that  remain  unburied  in  her 
heart.  The  clangor  of  the  bells  seem  to  forecast  for  her  a  fate 
marked  by  ineluctable  sorrow. 

Through  the  window,  which  permits  entrance  to  the  dying 
light,  come  the  noises  of  the  city,  muffled  by  the  distance. 

She  cast  her  glance  into  the  irrevocable  past;  the  decisive 
scenes  of  her  life  lived  anew.  That  day  on  which,  at  Gus- 
tavo's side,  fluttering  with  bashfulness,  upon  the  steps  of  the 
altar,  covered  with  her  nuptial  veil,  she  had  seen  through  the 
gauze,  as  through  a  dream,  the  shining  candles  and  the  white 
orange-blossoms.  .  .  .  Then  there  arose  out  of  the  past  the 


CASTILIAN  ROSES  73 

days  during  which,  at  the  side  of  a  cradle,  she  had  kissed  the 
satin  skin  of  a  baby  boy.  Afterwards, —  what  a  night  was 
that,  good  God! — the  first  night  of  widowhood,  a  night  of 
horror,  a  black  night  in  which  the  flames  of  four  candles,  tor- 
mented by  an  icy  wind,  illumined  from  time  to  time  a  yellow 
countenance  and  two  closed  eyes.  .  .  .  And  she  thought  that 
life  is  composed  of  three  pieces  of  cloth:  a  bridal  veil,  swad- 
dling clothes,  and  a  shroud. 

Then  came  her  long  widowhood,  financial  straits,  struggle, 
the  sale  of  her  estate,  her  anxiety  over  the  future  of  her  two 
children,  the  concentration  of  all  her  love  upon  .Roberto  and 
Elisa.  .  .  .  Ah,  Elisa,  so  sweet,  so  beautiful  on  the  night  she 
made  her  debut  at  the  ball:  the  bouquet  of  Castilian  roses 
in  her  blue  corsage;  her  elegant  simplicity  as  she  crossed  the 
grand  salon,  and  suddenly,  in  that  very  place,  the  look  of  death 
in  her  eyes.  .  .  .  Then  days  of  anguish  and  hope;  her  lin- 
gering agony  .  .  .  those  drizzly  afternoons  in  which  the  phy- 
sician, Doctor  Agiieros,  shaking  his  head,  and  speaking  half 
words,  with  his  ceremonious  circumspection  and  his  profes- 
sional condolence,  told  her  that  the  illness  was  incurable, —  that 
it  was  heart-trouble,  that  treacherous  family  ailment  of  the 
Avilas.  .  .  .  And  on  top  of  this  awful  blow,  that  absence, — 
that  other  solitude,  the  absence  of  Roberto,  the  trip  to  Europe, 
in  search  of  health,  to  consult  Doctor  Laplace.  .  .  .  Then  the 
return,  ah!  ...  Always  that  panting  breath,  the  dark  rings 
around  her  eyes,  the  seal  of  an  incurable  disease ! 

She  let  her  head  fall  upon  her  bosom;  the  needles  dropped 
into  her  lap;  her  hands,  thinned  by  years  of  anxious  strain, 
crossed;  from  her  lips,  which  scarcely  moved  with  a  fervent 
tremor,  issued  a  prayer  toward  her  who  was  also  a  mother,  and 
who  likewise  wept  the  misfortunes  of  her  son. 

"  For  him,  most  sacred  Virgin." 

And  from  that  Dolorosa  haflging  on  the  wall,  her  compan- 
ion through  life,  there  wafted  to  the  forehead  resting  upon  her 
palms  a  feeling  of  resignation,  of  tranquillity,  of  consola- 
tion. 

She  remained  thus  for  a  long  time  amid  the  silence  and 
the  dying  light.  Then  from  the  darkness  of  her  thoughts 
rose  a  light,  a  dim  ray  of  hope:  the  house  had  been  sold; 
that  very  afternoon  Roberto  had  surrendered  it.  But  from 


74  PAX 

the  sale  there  remained  a  considerable  portion  that  would  allow 
them  to  purchase  shares  in  the  great  enterprise.  She  must 
dispel  all  anxiety;  General  Ronderos  had  approved  her  course, 
with  all  the  interest  of  his  affection,  with  all  the  weight  of 
his  experience.  Within  a  short  time  their  fortune  would  have 
been  won  back.  All  uncertainties,  anguish  and  poverty  would 
be  at  an  end.  ...  As  she  gave  herself  up  to  her  dreams  there 
came  to  Dona  Ana  scenes  that  sent  a  quiver  of  joy  through 
that  heart  which  was  so  unaccustomed  to  happiness.  .  .  .  She 
was  in  her  old  dwelling.  .  .  .  Roberto  and  Ines  were  walking 
in  the  garden,  and  she,  from  above,  was  throwing  Castilian 
roses  down  upon  them;  the  couple  sent  her  a  look  beaming 
with  infinite  tenderness  and  supreme  happiness.  ...  Ah! 
The  complete  realization  of  her  happy  dreams  required  the 
success  of  the  enterprise;  peace.  .  .  .  Would  there  be  peace? 
Fear  of  war  was  already  in  the  air!  Her  hopes  languished,  and 
the  smiling  light  that  had  arisen  in  the  dark  gloom  of  her 
thoughts  was  extinguished. 

The  final  reflections  of  the  sunset  had  also  disappeared;  she 
was  engulfed  in  darkness;  night  had  conquered  ...  the  white 
of  the  curtains,  the  design  on  the  walls  and  even  the  pale 
forehead  of  Elisa's  portrait  faded  into  an  all-embracing  dark- 
ness. 

She  was  about  to  burst  into  sobbing  and  ease  her  soul  with 
tears;  but  habituated  to  silence,  Dona  Ana  sighed  only  in- 
wardly. .  .  . 

"  Are  you  there,  mother  dear?  " 

For  some  time  Roberto,  standing  silent  upon  the  threshold, 
had  stopped  to  control  himself  and  give  his  voice  that  merry 
ring  which  he  invariably  assumed  in  the  presence  of  his  mother. 
He  had  just  transferred  the  house;  his  hands  were  filled  with 
Castilian  roses,  which  he  had  just  picked.  He  had  intended 
to  throw  them  into  his  mother's  lap  as  soon  as  he  caught  sight 
of  her,  but  no  sooner  had  he  entered  than  his  resolution  aban- 
doned him  and  he  tried  to  discountenance  the  sadness  of  the 
occasion  with  some  jolly  trifle. 

"  Mother,  the  opera  company  gives  its  first  performance  to- 
night. We'll  subscribe  for  a  box,  won't  we?  ...  It  will  be 
great  fun." 

And  he  coughed  slightly. 


CASTILIAN  ROSES  75 

But  Dona  Ana,  hearing  his  words,  which  he  had  tried  to 
utter  in  a  natural  tone,  was  not  deceived.  Roberto's  voice 
was  veiled,  half  broken;  his  cough  had  betrayed  the  effort 
he  had  made  to  conceal  his  emotions;  from  the  scent  of  the 
Castilian  roses  that  had  scattered  through  the  room  she  could 
guess  what  had  just  happened:  the  transfer  of  the  house,  the 
farewell  to  those  corners  so  rich  in  intimate  recollections  .  .  . 
the  rose-bush!  .  .  .  Ah!  Her  poor,  beloved  Roberto  had 
brought  her  those  roses,  the  last  ones,  to  place  upon  Elisa's  grave. 

"Subscribe?  Of  course,  my  son.  It  will  be  very  enjoy- 
able .  .  .  ever  so  much." 

Roberto  knew  that  his  mother  had  been  waiting  for  him; 
he  heard  her  commonplace  remark  and  understood  that  these 
words  had  come  from  lips  still  trembling  with  prayer,  from  a 
throat  still  choked  by  a  sob.  There  was  a  brief  silence,  which 
Roberto  hastened  to  interrupt: 

"  Very  well.  .  .  .  Let's  make  particularly  sure  of  attending 
la  Rondinelli's  benefit  ...  a  genuine  artist.  .  .  ." 

He  meant  to  continue,  but  he  saw  that  he  would  betray  his 
feelings, —  that  his  voice  was  failing  him;  he  grew  silent  .  .  . 
he  now  regretted  having  brought  the  roses;  he  did  not  dare 
to  give  them  to  her;  they  would  arouse  in  his  mother  an  en- 
tire epoch  of  the  past :  his  father, —  Elisa ;  she  would  conceive 
the  idea  of  taking  these  flowers  to  Elisa's  grave.  He  had  not 
thought  that  at  this  hour,  in  such  a  state  of  mind,  this  bouquet 
of  flowers  would  reach  the  memories  and  the  griefs  hidden  at 
the  bottom  of  her  soul,  and  produce  an  outburst.  ...  He 
tried  to  retreat  in  silence. 

"  I  knew,"  said  Dona  Ana,  "  Rosina  and  Mirandola.  .  .  ." 

Roberto  succeeded  in  mastering  himself  once  more,  forced 
a  laugh,  and  continued  to  speak,  telling  of  the  arrival  of  the 
chorus  at  El  Consuelo;  the  incidents  of  the  trip;  and  as  he 
spoke  he  drew  nearer  to  her,  seeking  her  in  the  gloom.  An 
aroma  of  tenderness,  delicate  as  the  aroma  of  bygone  cen- 
turies, wafted  through  the  room.  Dona  Ana  felt  the  silky 
petals  falling  upon  her,  while  he  felt  the  old  woman's  fingers 
clutch  him  convulsively,  and  the  moisture  of  two  tears.  He 
let  go  of  the  last  roses,  and  gropingly,  in  an  unwonted  impulse 
of  affection,  he  sought  his  mother's  head,  took  it  in  his  hands, 
bent  over  and  pressed  upon  her  lips  a  long,  mute  kiss.  In 


76  PAX 

the  touch  of  her  lips  he  could  feel  the  unrevealed  bitterness 
and  anguish  which  tormented  that  mind;  he  felt  that  the 
bond  of  affection  and  grief,  which  united  those  two  souls,  had 
become  stronger  and  tighter  than  ever. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   BALLAD    OF    DESPAIR 

THE  spacious  dining-room  of  the  Hotel  Bicontinental  re- 
sounds with  the  footsteps  of  the  servants  who  are  making  the 
final  preparations  for  the  banquet  organized  by  Gonzalez 
Mogollon  in  honor  of  Landaburo,  and  also  for  the  purpose  of 
celebrating  the  union  of  the  integros  and  the  revaluadores. 
The  waiters  bustle  about  the  table,  place  in  succession  upon  it 
the  menus,  the  buttonhole  flowers,  the  fruit  baskets,  the  cards 
with  the  names  of  the  guests;  they  hang  festoons  upon  the  walls, 
place  above  the  two  doors  to  the  room  trophies,  banners,  and 
wreaths  displaying  gold-lettered  signs  alluding  to  the  function. 
The  two  newspapers  representing  and  acting  as  spokesman  for 
the  two  organizations  to  meet  in  the  dining-room  that  night, 
have  sent  two  huge  wreaths:  La  Integridad,  La  Revaluation. 

Montellano  and  Dolores,  as  they  came  to  the  main  dining- 
room,  were  detained  by  a  servant  who  informed  them  that  a 
special  room  had  been  prepared  for  guests  that  evening. 

"What's  the  reason?"  asked  Montellano,  as  he  crossed 
the  resplendent  main  dining-room  and  went  in  quest  of  the 
table  that  had  been  prepared  for  him  and  Dolores  in  an 
adjacent  compartment. 

"  Because  to-night  they're  giving  a  banquet  to  chief  Landa- 
buro," answered  the  attendant.  "  He's  what  you  call  a  real 
friend  of  the  people." 

Montellano  and  his  daughter  seated  themselves  and  stared 
with  surprise  and  curiosity  into  the  grand  salon,  at  the  long, 
glittering  table  that  awaited  the  guests;  they  could  make  out 
the  plates  and  the  covers,  the  bouquets  of  flowers,  colored 
dishes  containing  raisins  and  almonds,  and  the  loaves  of  bread 
in  napkins  that  were  knotted  like  white  lilies.  Clusters  of  elec- 
tric lights  sent  streams  of  light  that  drew  sparks  from  the 


THE  BALLAD  OF  DESPAIR  77 

nickel  of  the  salt-cellars  and  the  caps  of  the  demijohns,  cov- 
ering the  tablecloth  with  clear,  dark  shadows.  The  confusion 
of  footsteps  and  the  creaking  of  the  waiters'  shoes  make  one 
feel  at  times  that  the  floor  is  weak  and  has  given  way.  From 
outside  come  the  sound  of  footfalls  upon  a  brick  paving,  com- 
mands uttered  in  a  French  accent,  the  clatter  of  cutlery  and 
plates. 

In  the  gloomy  corridor  that  leads  to  the  door  of  the  waiters' 
room,  the  proprietor  of  the  hotel  paces  back  and  forth  with  the 
air  of  a  general  on  the  eve  of  battle.  His  massive  body  and  his 
canine  countenance  give  him  a  great  resemblance  to  Sanchez 
Mendez,  the  head  of  the  integros,  the  most  conspicuous  per- 
sonage of  the  political  banquet. 

Montellano  continued  to  converse  with  the  attendant,  asking 
him  about  the  details  of  the  banquet;  his  loud  voice,  too 
voluminous  for  the  room  in  which  he  was,  filled  the  adjoin- 
ing compartments. 

Alejandro,  Roberto  and  Bellegarde  came  in;  Montellano 
arose  to  greet  Alejandro  and  Roberto  as  if  they  were  old 
friends,  but  they  merely  nodded  and  took  a  distant  table. 
Roberto's  face  betrayed  traces  of  worry;  he  looked  wan  and 
pale.  Dolores  cast  a  tender  glance  in  his  direction;  whereupon 
the  mists  of  sadness  rose  from  Roberto's  countenance  and  he 
came  over  to  Dolores,  uttering  a  few  gallant  remarks.  Later, 
during  the  meal,  Dolores'  black  eyes  and  Roberto's  brown 
ones  kept  up  a  continuous  dialogue. 

Bellegarde  was  content  to  observe  Alejandro  attentively: 
that  face  whose  outline  was  more  pleasing  than  correct,  looked 
like  a  sketch,  but  a  sketch  drawn  by  a  master's  brush;  the 
fair,  golden  hair,  the  full  and  sensuous  lips,  the  ample,  vigor- 
ous forehead,  which  seemed  to  be  surrounded  by  a  halo  of  en- 
thusiasm; the  eyes  of  cold  blue,  which  at  times  acquired  a  ten- 
der tone  and  at  others  flashed  with  a  gleam  of  madness,  as  he 
spoke  of  art,  of  the  past,  of  fame;  at  such  times  his  words 
were  ardent  and  his  voice  quivered.  He  had  been  endowed 
by  nature  with  the  gift  of  admiration,  of  intense  feeling,  of 
communicating  his  faith  and  his  enthusiasm. 

A  burst  of  laughter  that  poured  forth  like  silvery  notes,  and 
a  stentorian  voice,  announced  la  Rondinelli  and  the  tenor  of 
the  Italian  opera  company. 


78  PAX 

The  profuse  light  illuminated  the  correct  profile  of  the  prima 
donna  and  threw  a  soft,  gold  glint  over  her  silken  tresses. 

The  ill-garbed,  perspiring  musicians  were  riling  into  the 
banquet  salon.  Carefully  they  placed  upon  the  floor  their  black 
violin  cases,  drew  their  flutes  from  their  cases  and  their  clarinets 
from  the  cloth  bags. 

They  took  seats  far  from  the  increasing  buzz  of  conversa- 
tion. Somewhat  later  the  guests  descended  upon  the  place;  they 
wore  a  solemn  air,  whispered  mysterious  sentences  into  one 
another's  ears,  stifled  outbursts  of  laughter,  and  exchanged 
affectionate  words;  amid  the  suppressed  conversation  they  wan- 
dered around  the  table,  stooped  down  in  search  of  their  places 
and  drew  the  chairs  apart,  scraping  them  noisily  along  the  floor. 
The  orchestra  burst  into  the  march  Broken  Fetters,  words  by 
the  maestro  Mata,  and  dedicated  expressly  to  Landaburo. 
Dolores,  who  from  her  table  was  following  all  the  details  of 
the  banquet  with  intense  curiosity,  gazed  at  the  row  of  white 
shirt-fronts  bent  over  the  plates  of  soup,  the  huge  pink  in 
Landaburo's  buttonhole;  the  tight  frock  coat  and  the  high 
collar  that  were  torturing  Doctor  Alcon;  the  immense  red  bald- 
head  and  the  multifarious  gestures  of  Gonzalez  Mogollon; 
Mata's  yellowish  complexion  and  his  ghastly  glance;  Doctor 
Agliero's  spectacles,  which  flashed  with  the  affected  movements 
of  his  head.  After  the  silence  that  accompanies  the  soup  and 
the  fish,  the  conversation  grew  livelier,  and  there  came  to 
Dolores,  through  the  footsteps  of  the  waiters  and  the  clatter  of 
the  plates,  fragments  of  the  guests'  conversation: 

"  The  white-hour  of  a  near  future.  ..."  "  Revaluation  or 
chaos.  .  .  ."  "  Half  the  nation  enslaved.  .  .  ." 

"  They  ate  in  the  triclinium  and  then  proceeded  to  the 
vomitorium,  as  Juvenal  says.  ..." 

"  Conciliation  of  extremes  .  .  .  universal  embrace  ...  en- 
forced salvation  .  .  .  practical  idea  .  .  .  from  the  religious 
standpoint." 

"  Oyster  soup  .  .  .  pearl,  illness  of  the  oyster  .  .  .  the  pearl, 
an  illness,  like  genius.  ..." 

"  Doctor  Charcot,  my  professor  at  la  Salpetriere  .  .  .  the 
idea?  a  product  just  like  this  wine." 

"  Crass  ignorance  .  .  .  unpardonable  errors.  .  .  .  My  his- 
toric refutations.  .  ,  ." 


THE  BALLAD  OF  DESPAIR  79 

At  the  head  of  the  table  bulged  the  corpulent  figure  of  Doctor 
Sanchez  Mendez,  who,  in  silence,  bent  over  his  plate,  gulped 
down  the  oyster  soup  with  keen  relish.  From  where  she  sat 
Dolores  could  make  out  only  his  huge  head,  bristling  like  a 
brush  above  his  white  shirt. 

The  news  of  the  banquet,  the  music  and  the  unusual  il- 
lumination that  lighted  up  the  street  had  attracted  a  crowd  of 
curiosity  seekers;  some  political  friends  of  the  hero  of  the  occa- 
sion, headed  by  Socarraz,  had  pressed  around  the  entrance, 
their  brows  arched  and  their  necks  stretched  forward,  ready 
to  hail,  to  applaud  and  to  scatter  upon  the  four  winds  the 
precious  words  of  "  Chief  Landaburo." 

The  hush  of  the  commencement  was  followed  by  general  mer- 
riment; the  voices  grew  louder,  toasts  were  given,  glasses 
clinked;  as  a  result  of  a  sated  appetite,  frequent  libations,  the 
light  reflected  in  the  mirrors,  the  guests  grew  rapidly  expan- 
sive and  talkative,  gushing  about  "  universal  brotherhood  "  ac- 
cording to  Gonzalez  Mogollon's  desires.  That  worthy,  who 
was  always  anxious  to  make  rapid  headway,  thought  it  the 
psychological  moment  for  his  purpose,  and  arose  to  state  the 
purpose  of  the  banquet.  He  had  the  orchestra  silenced  and 
began  to  speak.  As  he  did  so,  he  scattered  drops  of  red  wine 
over  the  tablecloth.  He  confessed  his  poor  oratorical  gifts,  and 
made  a  distinction  between  the  religious  and  secular  way  of 
doing  things;  he  did  not  like  to  speak  about  himself;  he 
served  only  to  save  humanity  and  to  do  good  among  all  the 
classes  of  society.  He  knew  that  it  was  the  custom  not  to  offer 
toasts  until  after  dessert,  when  champagne  was  being  served; 
but  he  had  permitted  himself  the  liberty  of  taking  the  floor 
during  the  carving  of  the  pigeons  because  that  was  the  kind  of 
fellow  he  was;  and  who  —  he  added  —  as  a  soldier  of  the 
Fatherland,  did  it  more  because  of  his  anxiety  for  harmony 
than  because  he  had  organized  this  banquet,  which  was  to 
effect  the  union  of  the  Integridad  club,  whose  president  was 
Sanchez  Mendez,  and  the  Revaluation,  presided  over  so  bril- 
liantly and  astoundingly  by  General  Landaburo. 

Roberto,  Alejandro  and  Bellegarde,  keenly  interested  in  poli- 
tics insofar  as  it  affected  general  peace  were  following  the 
course  of  the  banquet  with  deep  curiosity  and  commenting  upon 
the  various  incidents. 


80  PAX 

"  This  Doctor  Mogollon  who  has  just  finished  talking," 
said  the  Count,  "  strikes  me  as  a  man  of  excellent  inten- 
tions. His  desires  for  the  conciliation  of  the  two  parties  could 
not  be  more  patriotic;  he's  working  for  peace,  no  doubt." 

"  For  war,"  interrupted  Roberto.  "  What  he's  after  is  to 
rehabilitate  Landaburo,  who  has  lost  ground  since  his  recent 
defeats,  and  is  detested  and  fallen  in  prestige  even  among 
his  best  friends.  .  .  .  Landaburo,  was,  is,  and  will  always 
be,  an  agitator,  a  revolutionist." 

"  But,  how  is  it,  then,"  asked  Bellegarde,  in  surprise,  "  that 
Doctor  Alcon,  Doctor  Sandoval  y  Sabogal,  important  govern- 
ment employees,  should  be  present?  " 

"  I'll  explain  that,"  offered  Alejandro,  "  although  it's  not 
an  easy  matter.  At  the  beginning  of  his  political  career  Alcon 
attained  public  office  by  supporting  the  government;  but,  being 
a  clever  fellow,  he  afterwards  saw  that  he  would  advance  more 
rapidly  in  the  opposing  camp,  and  he  began  to  write  in  La 
Integridad,  attacking  the  government,  especially  in  its  finan- 
cial affairs;  and  general  Ronderos,  when  he  took  charge  of 
that  department,  asked  the  President  to  have  Doctor  Alcon 
be  given  the  post  of  under-secretary  so  that  he  might  review  all 
his  acts." 

"  As  for  Karlonoff,"  concluded  Roberto,  "  his  entrance  into 
the  La  Integridad  group  is  of  more  recent  date;  only  a  few 
days  ago  he  was  swinging  the  censer  and  chanting  dithyrambs 
to  General  Ronderos.  To-day  I  learned  that  after  the  minister 
signed  the  contract  with  you,  thus  flouting  the  counsel  of  the. 
consulting  engineer,  he  made  a  bee  line  for  the  office  of  Doctor 
Sanchez  Mendez,  the  head  of  the  integros,  gave  him  a  tight 
hug,  placed  himself  under  Mendez's  orders,  swearing  eternal 
war  against  Ronderos,  because  he  believes  Ronderos  lost." 

"  So  that,"  observed  Bellegarde,  "  if  the  union  of  these  two 
elements  is  effected,  peace  may  be  endangered." 

"No!  "  replied  Alejandro,  in  a  firm  voice  and  with  resolute 
gesture.  "  No;  for  General  Ronderos  is  in  the  war  ministry 
and  he  will  conquer  these  obstacles  as  he's  conquering  all  others, 
with  an  inexorable  hand." 

"  Pardon  me,  but  I  don't  understand  politics  very  well.  .  .  . 
Roberto  has  told  me  that  at  one  time  Sefior  Sanchez  Mendez 
and  General  Ronderos  were  close  friends,  and  that  they  helped 


THE  BALLAD  OF  DESPAIR  81 

to  establish  the  present  order  of  things.  .  .  .  Why  do  not  the 
friends  of  each  attempt  a  reconciliation,  an  understanding  be- 
tween the  two?  " 

"  Understanding?  Agreement?  Sanchez  itches  for  power 
and  will  hear  of  no  other  arrangement  than  being  given  a  free 
hand." 

Montellano  shot  penetrating  glances  in  the  direction  of  that 
group  of  important  politicians  who  sooner  or  later  were  to 
serve  him  in  his  manipulations. 

In  the  banquet  salon  the  merry  strains  of  the  orchestra  re- 
sounded anew. 

Then  there  began  a  conversation  upon  Nietzsche's  system 
and  Mata's  poetry.  Landaburo  began  to  feel  that  uneasiness 
which  always  troubled  him  when  he  occupied  a  secondary  place 
in  the  attention  of  the  public. 

"  Sefior  Gonzalez,"  he  blurted,  "  will  you  be  so  kind  as  to 
have  them  bring  me  my  raw  meat?  "  He  paused  to  note  the 
effect  of  his  words,  awaiting  the  question,  Why  raw?  But 
nobody  heeded  him,  so  he  explained  of  his  own  accord:  — 
"  You  see,  I  got  used  to  it  during  my  last  campaign,  and  I  must 
prepare  for  the  next." 

Despite  everything,  the  conversation  continued  to  revolve 
about  Nietzscheism. 

Doctor  Agiieros  then  discoursed,  in  his  affected  way,  about  the 
homoplasy  of  gray  matter,  on  the  ubiquity  of  sensation,  upon 
telepathy  and  upon  the  theory  of  mental  suggestion  advanced 
by  his  unforgettable  Charcot. 

"  My  dear  Mata,"  queried  Gonzalez  Mogollon,  "  why  so 
sad?  Why  so  silent?  Why  do  you  deprive  us  of  the  gems  of 
your  genius?  Why,  with  your  forthcoming  volume  My  Pen- 
tateuch, you  have  already  acquired  an  important  political 
standing." 

Mata,  with  his  sunken  eyes  and  his  silent  manner,  looked 
more  cadaverous  than  ever. 

"  A  verse,  poet,"  shouted  Landaburo  to  him.  "  Poetry  is  the 
sister  of  liberty.  .  .  .  Give  us  a  tear  from  your  oppressed  Polish 
heart." 

The  poet  seemed  to  awake;  the  conversations  and  the  urgings 
continued;  Mata  bowed,  brought  out  his  little  morphine  needle, 
raised  the  cuff  of  his  coat  and  without  being  noticed  applied  an 


82  PAX 

injection.  At  once  he  straightened  up,  aflame  with  inspira- 
tion. .  .  . 

"  Give  me  a  theme!  .  .  ." 

"  This  carnation,"  suggested  Landaburo. 

"  Then  give  me  four  rhymes,  whatever  you  wish.  I  accept 
the  theme:  the  red  carnation  is  suggestive.  .  .  .  You  will  see  the 
poem  in  my  next  volume,  Red  Lines." 

"  Here  you  have  your  four  rhymes,"  said  Landaburo,  passing 
him  the  menu,  upon  the  back  of  which  was  written :  "  Utrajadas 
.  .  .  lirio  .  .  .  desolladas  .  .  .  martirio.  ..." 

The  poet's  face  assumed  an  inspired  expression,  he  passed 
his  hand  across  his  perspiring  forehead,  and  over  his  romantic 
locks  as  if  in  the  agony  of  a  painful  travail,  looked  at  the 
table,  the  wall,  and  into  infinity  .  .  .  and  suddenly  burst  forth, 
with  the  pink  in  his  hand : 

"  BLOOD  STAIN,  for  my  forthcoming  volume  Red  Line. 

"  No  tiene   las  blancuras  de  auroras  ultrajadas, 
No  tiene  los  pudores  anemicos  del  lirio, 
Ni   el  viejo   Azul.  .  .  .  Es  rojo  cual  carnes  desolladas 
Que  sienten  la  sublime  neurosis  del  martirio." 

(It  has  not  the  white  of  ultra  dawns,  nor  the  anemic  modesty 
of  the  lily,  nor  the  old  blue.  .  .  .  It  is  as  red  as  torn  flesh  that 
feels  the  sublime  neurosis  of  martyrdom.) 

"Bravo!  "  shouted  Landaburo. — "My  flower!  It  has  been 
consecrated  by  art.  ...  A  stupendous  stanza.  Let  it  not  be 
overlooked  in  the  Banquet  Review." 

Roberto,  from  his  place,  said  to  his  friend: 

"  Frankly,  it  would  be  hard  to  do  better  in  four  lines." 

The  regular  popping  of  the  champagne  resounded. 

All  turned  to  Doctor  Sanchez  Mendez,  expecting  him  to  speak, 
but  he  excused  himself  definitively,  asking  Doctor  Alcon  to 
take  his  place;  but  the  latter,  after  having  blushed  with  the 
purple  of  learned  modesty,  excused  himself,  likewise  alleging 
his  well-known  incompetence,  his  ignorance,  his  lack  of  ex- 
perience in  speaking  before  the  public. 

"  They  don't  wish  to  compromise  themselves,"  said  Roberto. 
"  They  eat  but  they  don't  orate.  They  do  as  the  English- 
men's mosquito:  they  eat  but  they  don't  sing." 


THE  BALLAD  OF  DESPAIR  83 

Doctor  Agiieros,  who  was  very  fond  of  speech-making  and 
declaiming,  arose  unbidden,  adjusted  his  spectacles,  smoothed 
his  long  shocks  of  hair,  and  with  a  mellifluous  voice  and  ex- 
quisite refinement,  began: 

"  Those  in  charge  of  the  government,  empirical  physicians, 
have  given  to  the  invalid  a  poison  which  kills  slowly;  in  ten 
years  of  peace  they  have  galvanized  him;  with  fleeting  con- 
vulsions of  ephemeral  activity  they  have  filled  his  veins  with  a 
strange  blood:  depreciated  currency!  Can  you  not  hear  the 
voice  of  the  anguishing  land  demanding  at  the  top  of  its  lungs 
the  suppression  of  the  injection?  The  evil  must  be  attacked 
where  it  exists,  and  the  remedy  must  be  applied  loco  dolienle, 
to  the  wound  itself;  cataplasmic  emollients  must  be  placed 
upon  the  rapid  inflammation  produced  by  the  repellent  political 
measures  of  the  prevailing  constitution.  Against  this  official 
treatment  my  fellow  partisans,  some  ten  years  ago,  rebelled  in  a 
struggle  that  has  my  admiration;  but  as  they  did  not  win  out, 
I  recognize  that  the  system  of  liberal  bleedings  did  not  produce 
the  desired  result  for  our  cause.  Let  us  to-day  apply  a  dif- 
ferent treatment:  if,  having  been  tried  by  various  doctors,  a 
proposed  remedy  for  an  evil  is  proved  to  be  ineffective,  tend- 
ing rather  to  aggravate  the  evil,  it  is  empiricism,  it  is  blindness, 
to  persist  in  applying  it;  it  attests,  at  any  rate,  scant  inventive- 
ness. Let  us  seek  another  remedy  in  political  therapeutics. 
Gentlemen,  here's  to  conciliation!  " 

As  he  concluded,  voices  were  heard: 

"  Let  Landaburo  speak." 

Karlonoff,  intercepting  Landaburo,  arose. 

"  Gentlemen,  we  are  in  dire  need  of  real  men,  and  it  is  great 
honor  for  me  to  raise  this  glass  in  greeting  to  two  celebrities  of 
the  highest  worth,  Doctor  Sanchez  Mendez  and  General  Landa- 
buro. I  greet  particularly,  and  as  my  adversary  of  yesterday, 
the  latter,  in  this  epoch  that  so  greatly  lacks  men  capable  of 
dominating  the  times  and  the  field  by  means  of  vast  conceptions 
worthy  of  a  Hannibal  or  a  Napoleon,  despite  their  contradic- 
tions and  errors  of  a  military  nature ;  despite  my  efforts  to  spread 
in  this  country  the  knowledge  and  the  study  of  military  science 
and  the  art  of  war,  little  attention  has  been  devoted  to  them  up 
to  the  present;  all  our  military  men  have  been  committing  capi- 
tal errors,  seeking  the  worst  lines  of  retreat;  the  first  of  all, 


84  PAX 

Bolivar,  generally  called  the  Liberator;  the  mulatto  Piar  was 
a  thousandfold  superior  to  him,  even  as  the  Pinzons  were 
superior  to  Columbus,  for  Bolivar  never  had  a  fixed  plan  of 
campaign,  and  his  leadership  was  null,  fatal,  if  not  downright 
disgraceful.  General  Landaburo  is  beloved  because  he  is  the 
father  of  his  soldiers, —  pardon  me  this  digression, —  while  Bo- 
livar made  a  needless  sacrifice  of  his  armies,  which  he  formed 
with  iron-like  tenacity,  like  the  Indian  who,  during  his  peo- 
ple's festive  occasions,  gambles  away  at  bisbis  or  chirombolo, 
the  ten  or  twelve  golden  reales  that  represent  the  toil  of  an  en- 
tire week." 

Stifled  laughter  was  heard,  and  murmurs  of  disapproval; 
some  of  the  guests  were  whispering  to  one  another,  paying  no  at- 
tention to  Karlonoff's  toast.  The  latter  went  on: 

"  I  speak  without  beating  about  the  bush,  for  history  knows 
neither  friends  nor  parties;  many  pseudo-historians,  perhaps 
not  so  much  through  bad  faith  as  through  ignorance,  have 
distorted  these  facts;  but  I,  in  my  Refutations,  have  solemnly 
given  them  the  lie,  for  they  are  merely  plagiarists  who  speak 
of  matters  without  understanding  them.  Gentlemen,  let  us 
raise  this  same  glass  in  toast  to  La  Revaluation  and  to  La  In- 
tegridad;  let  us  embrace  and  welcome  General  Landaburo  who, 
just  as  Doctor  Sanchez  is  the  pen,  will  be  the  sword  of  our 
side.  Here's  to  General  Landaburo,  who  did  not  commit 
Bolivar's  errors,  impelled  by  the  ambition  of  entering  the 
capitals  and  being  hailed  as  Liberator." 

"  Enough!     Enough!  " 

"  Let  Landaburo  have  the  floor,"  shouted  some  in  indigna- 
tion, and  Karlonoff  was  forced  to  sit  down.  Landaburo  had 
entrusted  Socarraz  with  having  a  photograph  of  him  taken  as 
he  arose  to  speak,  and  for  this  reason  was  especially  concerned 
with  his  pose,  his  appearance  and  the  gesture  that  he  already 
could  behold  printed  in  the  papers,  the  almanacs  and  on  the 
cigarette  packages. 

As  Landaburo  prepared  to  speak,  there  rippled  along  the 
tables,  from  the  reserved  salon  to  the  end  of  the  dining-room, 
a  tremor  of  expectation,  swelling  to  a  buzz  of  admiration. 

"  Shh!  The  General  is  going  to  speak.  .  .  .  Chief  Landa- 
buro." 


THE  BALLAD  OF  DESPAIR  85 

Proud  to  be  the  target  of  all  eyes,  and  flattered  to  see  what 
a  crowd  had  gathered  in  the  doorway  of  the  dining-room, 
Landaburo  arose  confidently,  ready  for  the  photographer;  to 
give  proof  of  his  coolness,  he  placed  a  glass  to  one  side,  ar- 
ranged his  pink,  swept  the  assembly  in  a  circular  glance  and 
burst  forth  in  his  trumpet-like  voice: 

"  I  devote  my  wandering  and  fecund  life,  hour  by  hour  and 
minute  by  minute,  to  the  service  of  Liberty.  I  am  still  covered 
with  the  dust  of  the  road;  I  was  unable  to  change  attire." 

"  Bravo!  .  .  ."  clamored  the  crowd. 

"  I  have  only  this  moment  removed  my  boots  and  spurs.  .  .  ." 

"Bravo!" 

"  Bravissimo!  " 

"What  talent!" 

".  .  .  and  spurs,  and  I  scarcely  had  time  to  pluck  in  gardens 
of  Casiano  this  beautiful,  symbolic  pink  which  stands  for 
the  fire  with  which  we  should  advance  the  revaluation  of 
ideals, —  the  color  of  the  blood  that  we  shed  to  the  last  drop, 
when  we  plunged  ardently  into  conflict  with  the  party  support- 
ing the  prevailing  constitution." 

"  No  mention  of  blood,"  interrupted  Gonzalez  earnestly. 
"  Conciliation  is  the  word!  " 

".  .  .  And  this  pink  symbolizes,  too,  the  raw  meat  upon 
which  we  fed,  when,  in  our  battle  for  revaluation  and  fra- 
ternity, we  preferred  the  wandering,  battling  existence  of  the 
vast  pampas,  free  of  trammels  and  laws,  rifle  in  hand  and 
anger  in  the  socket,  to  the  fate  of  conforming  to  the  intellectual 
tortures  and  above  all,  the  material  ones,  of  peace,  and  to  the 
politics  of  the  Swiss  and  the  closed  door.  For  this  reason  my 
enemies  called  me  the  revolutionary  Marat;  a  better  comparison 
would  be  that  with  Lafayette,  for  once  conquered,  my  soul 
is  overcome  with  generosity.  If  I  am  at  all  famous,  it  is  not 
because  I  seek  glory  everywhere  through  my  speeches,  but  be- 
cause of  the  talent  of  my  fellow  citizens,  who  discover  merit 
wherever  it  exists. 

"  I  confess  that  there  are  many  revolutionary  leaders  who 
feed  their  vanity  by  rejecting  this  conciliation  and  wrap  them- 
selves in  the  toga  of  the  recalcitrant.  Not  I ;  I  come  to  deprecate 
legal  strife;  I,  who  have  given  to  my  cause  all  that  a  man  can 


86  PAX 

give;  I,  I  who  have  faced  the  torrents  of  the  sky  and  the 
torrents  of  bullets,  and  who  have  during  the  past  ten  years 
confronted  the  sufferings  of  peace. 

"  Instead  of  blood,  let  us  make  flow  in  torrents  the  fertiliz- 
ing water  of  discussion.  As  I  said  in  my  speech  at  El  Consuelo, 
to  the  Revaluation  party,  to  Colombia,  to  all  Spanish  America: 
In  our  soldiers'  knapsacks  let  us  place  not  cartridges  but  fruits 
for  export.  I  believe  that  both  the  lower  and  the  higher  spheres 
of  the  Administration  will  be  grateful  to  me  for  that  slogan. 
The  men  of  the  Constitution  have  everywhere  conquered  us, 
and  have  imposed  upon  the  country  ten  years  of  peace,  thus 
proving  to  us  our  incapability  of  waging  war.  Fate  has  been 
unkind  to  us,  and  has  gone  over  to  the  enemy  bag  and  bag- 
gage. We  have  taken  the  wrong  road;  but  as  Mr.  Bristol,  the 
Archbishop  of  Chicago,  says :  *  What  matters  it  that  man  sins 
from  time  to  time !  ' 

"  Landaburo,"  said  Roberto  to  his  friends,  "  has  just  ac- 
complished what  can  be  done  only  by  popes  and  garrotes  .  .  . 
he  has  made  a  cardinal,  for  in  Chicago  there  is  no  cardinal,  to 
my  knowledge." 

"  Gentlemen,"  continued  Landaburo,  "  I  have  demonstrated 
my  love  for  peace,  for  liberty,  but  I  cannot  conclude  without 
showing  my  love  for  the  people  and  proclaiming  some  of  my 
theories  for  the  betterment  of  its  condition." 

"  Long  live  the  friend  of  the  people!  "  shouted  Socarraz;  and 
the  crowd  behind  him,  which  had  invaded  the  salon,  took  up 
the  cry. 

"  That  a  man  should  enjoy  the  fruit  of  his  toil  is  an  ac- 
cepted fact;  but  what  must  not  be  tolerated  is  the  amassing 
of  those  great  fortunes  that  insult  the  poor;  all  capital  exceed- 
ing ten  thousand  dollars  should  be  divided  among  the  peo- 
ple." 

And  as  he  spoke  he  pointed  to  Montellano  who,  seated  op- 
posite the  speaker,  in  the  special  dining-room,  flared  up  with 
rage. 

"  And  it  is  neither  just  nor  legitimate,"  resumed  the  orator, 
"  that  these  vast  fortunes  should  be  transmitted  through  in- 
heritance, for  these  legacies  result  in  the  laziness  of  the  heir 
and  in  all  the  vices  engendered  by  idleness.  Why  in  this  very 


THE  BALLAD  OF  DESPAIR  87 

place,  to  go  no  further,  we  have  a  man  whose  income  is  almost 
equal  to  that  of  the  nation." 

Montellano  and  Dolores  left.  In  the  salon  the  acclamations 
continued  to  resound. 

"Bravo!" 

"Sublime!  " 

"Long  live  the  republican  revindicator !  " 

"  Long  life  to  the  friend  of  the  people !  " 

The  crowd,  like  a  huge  wave,  had  inundated  the  salon;  frock 
coats  mingled  with  jackets,  guests  were  merged  with  spectators, 
and  enthusiasm  could  be  read  upon  every  countenance. 

There  were  embraces,  handclasps,  tears,  clinking  of  glasses, 
exchange  of  tender  sentiments,  toasts  from  everybody  to  every 
conceivable  thing. 

"Here's  to  friendship!" 

"To  peace!  " 

"To  my  wife  Juliana!  " 

"  To  the  Republic.  ...   !  " 

"To  the  Latin  race  in  America!" 

"  To  Angelita  and  the  babies!  " 

"  To  humanity !  " 

"  To  Tubalcain  Cardoso  ...  the  great  absent  one!  " 

"To  Dante!" 

"To  Perucho!" 

"To  this!  " 

"To  that!" 

The  general  expansiveness,  universal  brotherhood  and  ten- 
derness had  reached  their  height.  Gonzalez  Mogollon,  deeply 
moved,  with  his  bellowing  voice  dominated  the  din, —  that 
oceanic  tumult: 

"  It's  a  great  success.  .  .  .  This  union  is  due  to  me  .  .  . 
there  will  be  peace  for  twenty  years.  .  .  .  I'll  wager  my 
neck.  ..."  And  placing  his  glass  upon  the  table,  he  passed 
his  finger  across  his  prominent  Adam's  apple  as  if  slashing 
his  neck. 

Karlonoff  was  going  from  group  to  group  trying  to  con- 
tinue his  interrupted  speech :  "  The  ineptitude  and  the  ridicu- 
lous tactics  of  Bolivar  came  to  such  a  pass,  that  .  .  ." 

Socarraz,   half   tipsy,    scattering   an   odor   of   brandy,   and 


88  PAX 

taking  advantage  of  this  opportunity  to  mingle  with  impor- 
tant personages,  was  meandering  from  group  to  group,  order- 
ing the  servants  to  fetch  champagne  aplenty;  he  clasped  every- 
body's hand;  he  was  profuse  with  enthusiastic  words  in  favor 
of  Landaburo  Sanchez  Mendez,  and  Alcon;  all  at  once  he  dis- 
covered the  dining-room  in  which  were  Bellegarde  and  Ale- 
jandro; he  summoned  an  attendant  imperiously,  ordered  him 
to  procure  a  bottle  of  champagne  and  made  his  way  with  it 
into  the  dining-room. 

The  champagne,  his  hearty  eating  and  the  copious  drinking 
previous  to  his  entrance,  had  set  fire  to  his  face,  which  was 
generally  of  greenish  hue. 

"  Don  Alejandro,  Don  Roberto,  Serior  Bellegarde,  here's  a 
glass  to  the  General,  to  Doctor  Sanchez." —  They  turned  to  look 
at  him,  but  made  no  reply. 

"  Senores,  here's  to  reconciliation,  to  peace." —  His  voice 
quivered  slightly,  the  high  color  of  his  cheeks  faded  and  was 
subsiding  to  green.  Roberto  pitied  the  fellow,  and  desiring  to 
humor  him,  arose. 

"  Very  well,  Escipion,  I'll  have  one  with  you  .  .  .  but  leave 
us." 

"  And  won't  the  gentlemen  join  me?  " 

Bellegarde  blinked,  Alejandro  mastered  his  feelings,  restrain- 
ing a  convulsive  movement  of  his  hands. 

"  Well,  since  you  won't  join  me,"  shouted  Socarraz,  turning 
to  Bellegarde  and  Alejandro, — "  I  won't  drink  either;  I  don't 
need  to." 

And  he  lowered  his  glass  so  violently  that  the  champagne 
spilled  over  the  tablecloth. 

Bellegarde  rang  the  bell;  two  attendants  approached  in 
haste. 

"  Take  this  drunkard  out  of  here,"  he  said  in  his  ever 
even  voice,  and  continued  his  conversation  with  Alejandro. 

Gonzalez  Mogollon  had  also  drawn  near  to  help  prevent  a 
scene. 

"Ah!  My  dear  Socarraz,  you're  a  most  excellent  fellow; 
.  .  .  calm,  now,  calm;  conciliation,  peace.  .  .  ."  And  he 
placed  his  arm  on  the  young  man's  shoulder. 

Socarraz  released  himself  from  Gonzalez,  planted  himself  in 
front  of  Bellegarde,  darted  a  furious  glance  at  him  through 


THE  BALLAD  OF  DESPAIR  89 

his  squinting  eyes,  then  turned  his  back  bruskly  upon  him. 

Gonzalez  Mogollon  took  him  by  the  arm  and  they  left  to- 
gether. Gonzalez's  voice  could  be  heard. 

"  Calm.  .  .  .  Calm,  now.  .  .  ." 

Bellegarde  and  his  friends  withdrew.  Sanchez  Mendez  was 
much  vexed  when  he  learned  of  the  incident  between  Socarraz 
and  Bellegarde,  and  feared  lest  the  high  spirits  produced  by 
the  champagne  and  the  invasion  of  the  dining-room  by  the 
populace  should  finally  lead  to  slaps  and  blows, —  a  not  very 
promising  prologue  to  the  ratification  of  peace  and  concilia- 
tion. He,  too,  was  a  man  of  refinement,  of  aristocratic  tastes, 
and  only  political  necessity  obliged  him  to  attend  such  ban- 
quets as  this,  and  to  mingle  with  persons  like  Socarraz  and 
his  associates.  He  had  an  understanding  with  Gonzalez  Mo- 
gollon. 

"  Where  is  the  poet  Mata?  —  My  dear  Mata,  let's  have  some 
unpublished  composition  of  yours, —  the  very  latest,  which  you 
recited  at  Dona  Aura  de  Cardoso's  home  and  which  has  created 
so  much  comment.  .  .  .  What  is  the  name  of  the  poem?  .  .  ." 

And  he  placed  his  hand  upon  the  poet's  shoulder,  casting  at 
him  through  his  thick  glasses  a  most  good-natured  glance. 
Mata  wavered,  raised  his  filmy  eyes  and  replied  in  a  thick 
voice : 

"  The  ballad  of  despair." 

The  crowd  was  silenced;  a  wide  circle  was  formed;  Mata 
took  his  place  beside  a  table. 

His  asthmatic  voice  broke  at  times,  becoming  hoarser  than 
ever, —  a  sigh,  a  mere  breath.  During  the  declamation  he  tried 
to  make  vigorous  gestures,  energetic  motions,  to  assume  pathetic 
poses;  he  would  with  great  effort  straighten  up,  thrust  forth 
his  chest  and  raise  his  arm,  but  at  once  he  would  bend  over  in 
partial  collapse,  incline  his  head,  drop  his  arm  as  if  it  were 
of  lead,  and  then  lean  against  the  table,  casting  his  hazy  eyes 
about;  his  voice  would  die  out,  he  would  grow  pale,  where- 
upon with  another  supreme  effort,  in  a  convulsive  attempt  that 
shook  his  entire  body,  he  would  raise  his  head,  lift  up  his  arm 
once  more,  waver,  and  pull  out  the  cuffs  of  his  shirt,  upon 
which  shone  two  buttons  representing  skulls. 

"  Ballad  of  despair.  .  .  .  From  my  volume,  The  Song  of 
My  Songs," 


go  PAX 


Fray  Martin  of  la  Cogulla, 
The  prior  of  Calatrava, 
Who  exhausted  all  penances,  hair  shirts,  fasts  and  disciplines,  and  with 

hooks 

Rent  his  pale  flesh, 
Castigated  his  appetites, 
And  with  pious 
Reflexions  and  readings   in  missals  and   breviaries  illuminated  by   the 

masters, 
Dominated 

The  passions  of  body  and  soul, 
Soul  and   body, 

And  was  a  venerable  monk  with  his  long  and  noble  beard, 
Noble  and  longj. 
And  when  he  was 
In  the  choir, 
Chanting  the  renowned  sequences  before  the  black  lecturn, 

His  figure 

Illuminated  by  the  beams  that  the  liturgic  window-panes 
Distilled, 

Shedding  with  silvery  light  the  fleece 
Of  his  beard; 
In  frames  that  an  artificer  of  Bizantium 

Had  carved, 

He  seemed  to  be  the  great  Pontiff  of  Life  and  Death, 
The  great  Pontiff  of  the  Extinct  and  the  Nothingness; 
And  it  was  thus,  with  the  prestige  of  his  abbatial  gold, 
And  the  onyx  of  the  choir,  and  the  finely  wrought  filigrees 

Of  the  stole  and  the  amice, 
Of  the  cingulum  and  the  alb, 

And   reading   from   folios   which   chrysography   adorned   with    its   royal 
lilies,    its   chimeras   and    its    griffes,    the   rings   of   the 
rattlesnake;  the  serpents 
And  the  gargoyles, 

And  the  red  and  the  blacks  of  the  medieval  letters,— 
It  was  thus  that  the  good  monk,  of  Death  and  Nothingness, 
Fray  Martin  de  la  Cogulla, 
Overawed 

The  monks  and  the  worshipers  of  the  dank,   dark 
Calatrava. 

II 

One  night, 

One  night, 

At  one,  at  two  in  the  morning, 

At  one, 

At  two, 

At  three  in  the  morning, 


THE  BALLAD  OF  DESPAIR  91 

The  penitent  having  been  kept  awake  by  the  frogs  and  the  rats, 
By  the  frogs  which,  in  the  moats  of  the  convent, 

Croaked, 

By  the  rats  that  gnawed, 

That  gnawed  with  their  teeth  on  the  edges  of  the  pages 
Of  an  ancient  parchment  which,  with  hinges  and  keys, 
Related  the  fame  of  old  Calatrava, 
The  good  monk,  unable  to  sleep, 

Meditated, 

Meditated, 

Meditated, 

And  in  that  gray  night,  and  in  the  mystic  vigil, 
Amid  austere  penances,  and  amid  the  white  visions, 
There  appeared  suddenly,  laden  with  tenderness,  fascination,  gentleness 

and  promises, 
•    Dona  Sancha, 

Dona  Sancha  de  Almudejar  who  once,  during  the  agile  tournaments, 
Had  crowned  the  strong  and  noble  Martin. 

Ill 

In  the  battlemented  tower 
With  its  merlons  and  its  arches, 

There  resounded,  with  funereal  clang,  and  in  a  hoarse  voice  of  bronze, 
with  three   strokes, 

The  bell, 

The  bell  which,  suspended  in  the  night, 

Rang  out 

Its  sighs,  its  plaints, 

Its  terrors,  its  prayers, 

And  the  good  monk,  unable  to  sleep, 

Kept  meditating, 

And  in  the  gloom  of  his  cell, 

All  filled  with  perfumes,   with  promises,   with  tenderness,   with  purity, 
There  appeared  beside  his  cot  the  dominating  vision, 

The  vision  of  Dona  Sancha, 
Dona  Sancha  de   Almudejar,  who  once,,  during  the  agile  tournaments, 

Had  crowned  the  strong  and  noble  Martin. 

IV 

And  out  of  the  darkness 

Of  the  solitary  cell 

Arose  the  tormenting  recollections  of  former  passionate  days, 
Of  other  nights,  warm  nights,  sweet  nights,  clear  nights, 
Of  balls  and  tournaments  and  feasts  and  merry  dins, 

In  which  the  beautiful 

Dona  Sancha 

Seemed  like  a  living  lotus 

Who  triumphed 
Amid  the  rhythm  of  the  guzlas  and  of  the  stirring  trumpets, 


92  PAX 

Amid  the  measured  clank  of  the  grieves  and  the  helmets  and  the  coats 

of  mail, 
To  which 

The  youthful  labourers 
Kept  time, 

Passing  in  measured  gait  through  the  august  pride  of  the  arches  and 
the  glory  of  the  proud  standards. 


He  wished  to  give  a  grandiose  finale  to  the  poem  of  his  deep  melancholy ; 
He  felt  the  kiss,  he  felt  the  touch,  he  felt  the  ice  of  mortal  despair.  .  .  . 

And  the  good   monk, 

Before  the  pale 

Sweet  vision, 

Magic  vision, 

Very  softly, 

Very  softly  arose, 

And  through  long  corridors 

In  which  the  wind  moaned, 

Spreading  the  three  strokes,  the  funereal  clang,   of  the  mournful  Bell, 
Through  the  arched  cloister,  and  through  patios  in  which  the  ray  of 
the  moon,  shedding  its  shimmering  mercury, 

Cast 

The  long,   black  shadow, 

Black  and  long, 
Of  the  good  monk,  the  good  monk  glided  along 

Like  a  specter, 

Glided  along, 

Crossed  and  passed  on. 

VI 

And  by  the  alborescent  light, 

The  pale  light 

Of  the  dawn  which  in  the  infinite,  greenish  heavens  with  its  rhyming 
canopy,  and  the  silk  of  its  mist 

Resembled 

A  crystal  strophe, 

And  in  sight  of  the  astonished  friars,  who  were  already  chanting  matins, 
The  old  penitent,  Fray  Martin  de  la  Cogulla, 

Went  to  the  tower,  and  one  stair 

After  the  other, 

And  another  stair, 

And  another  stair, 

And  another  stair, 

He  climbed 

And  in  the  white 
Tower,  where  a  black  old  beam  of  decayed  wood  extended  out  toward 

the  sad  asphodels  of  the  dawn, 
With  the  cord  that  tightened  his  waist, 


NOSTALGIA  FOR  DEATH  93 

The  good  friar,  crac!  hanged  himself; 

And  against  the  lime  walls  of  the  tower, 

Projected  in  shadows 

By  the  gray  and  silver 

Beams  of  the  moon, 

Stretched  stiffly 

The  cowl 

And  the  gray  hair, 

The  fleece 

Of  his  beard, 

And  the  verterbrae, 

The  serge, 

And   the   feet, 

And  the  sandals, 

And  the  cord, 

And  the  gaunt 

Corpse, 

All  forming 

A  long  shadow, 

A  single, 

Single, 

Long 

Shadow. 


CHAPTER  IX 

NOSTALGIA   FOR   DEATH 

"  WE  should  have  left  the  place  sooner,"  said  Alejandro 
to  his^  friends,  as  they  crossed  Bolivar  Square.  "  In  that  way 
we  should  have  avoided  the  explosion  of  fraternity  and  Socar- 
raz's  gallantries.  ..." 

From  the  square  and  the  neighboring  streets  there  arose  in 
the  darkness  a  merry,  festive  din.  The  crowds  were  on  their 
way  to  the  theater,  anxious  to  witness  the  opening  performance 
given  by  the  Italian  troupe. 

The  moon,  in  the  west,  escorted  by  silver-lined  clouds,  was 
sailing  in  an  inky  ocean.  In  the  east,  against  a  curtain  of 
black  velvet  there  stood  out  the  Cathedral  towers.  The  lights 
from  the  carriages  flashed  by  in  the  darkness  like  glow-worms. 

*'  I'm  very  desirous  of  hearing  Massenet's  Werther;  it's  the 
first  time  the  opera  is  sung  in  Bogota." 

Before  the  entrance  to  the  theater,  under  the  electric  lights, 
there  is  a  veritable  commotion:  carriages  coming  and  going, 


• 


94  PAX 

amid  the  clatter  of  hoofs;  others  stop,  and  men  and  women  come 
forth,  the  latter  scattering  perfume  in  their  wake.  Dark  over- 
coats, silk  wraps,  furs,  uncovered  heads,  issue  from  the  shadows, 
pause  in  the  entrance,  glitter  in  the  intense  light  of  the  vestibule, 
and  are  lost  in  the  semi-darkness  of  the  staircase,  as  they  ascend. 

The  three  friends  in  their  front  box  are  admiring  the  spec- 
tacle: the  full  house;  the  perfumes,  the  buzz  of  conversation,  the 
flash  of  the  shining  shirt-fronts  out  of  the  dark  recesses  of  the 
boxes,  the  gems  sparkling  on  the  white  necks.  The  fluttering 
of  fans,  the  silken  glints,  the  glitter  of  jewelry.  .  .  . 

"  I  can't  understand,"  said  Roberto,  "  how  they  could  have 
made  a  drama  of  so  simple  a  plot  as  Goethe's  Werther,  which  is 
so  devoid  of  action.  The  theme  of  the  novel  is  slight:  Wer- 
ther falls  in  love  with  Carlotta,  who  is  already  betrothed  to 
Albert.  She,  faithful  to  her  vow,  marries  her  sweetheart.  Wer- 
ther, crushed,  commits  suicide.  The  whole  matter  might  be 
summed  up  by  such  a  quatrain  as  the  one  about  Corinne : 

"  Oswald    loved   Corinne, 
But  he  was  silly  enough 
To    give    his    hand    to    an    Englishwoman, 
And  poor  Corinne  died. 

" — But  Massenet's  skill  and  success  lay  precisely  in  his 
choice  of  a  simple  plot,  almost  devoid  of  action,  in  which  there  is 
only  one  great  passion;  such  a  plot  suited  his  inspiration,  his 
disposition  and  his  tendencies  better  than  any  other.  Drama, 
musical  drama,  lives  upon  action;  but  that  action  is  internal, 
moral,  arising  from  deep  passions.  ..." 

And  as  this  was  a  theme  that  attracted  Bellegarde,  he  con- 
tinued : 

"  That  is  how  music  can  become  spiritualized,  noble,  ap- 
pealing to  the  spirit,  overpowering  the  soul,  scorning  to  pander 
to  the  nerves  and  to  flatter  the  senses.  .  . 

"  But  the  selfsame  Massenet's  La  Navarraise,  which  I  heard 
in  Paris,  has,  quite  to  the  contrary,  a  most  violent,  agitated  plot. 
.  .  .  The  story  would  have  been  much  to  the  taste  of  a  certain 
public  hereabouts:  the  civil  war  in  Spain;  clamors,  commotion, 
confusion  to  the  accompaniment  of  drums,  trumpets,  shots  and 
cannon  booms.  .  .  .  The  music  fairly  reeked  powder. 

"  And  that's  why  it  was  a  fiasco.     There's  an  explanation  for 


NOSTALGIA  FOR  DEATH  95 

it  all.  Mascagni  had  just  made  a  striking  hit  with  his  Caval- 
leria  Rusticana.  Massenet  wished  to  write  his  Cavalleria,  too; 
and  he  included  every  device  that  Mascagni  had  employed:  he 
let  the  orchestra  loose,  he  overdid  the  melodies,  and  lowered  his 
exquisite  gifts  to  the  vulgarity  of  certain  Italian  methods, —  to 
noisy  ensembles,  to  convulsive  phrases  that  run  through  the 
whole  scale,  to  facile  contrasts. 

"  And  in  this  brutal  game, —  this  game  of  throat-cutting  and 
bullet-firing,  Massenet  was  bested,  for  he  was  made  to  depict 
the  morbid  passions,  the  delicate  weakness  of  Werther.  .  .  ." 

The  curtain  arose. 

Bellegarde  wiped  his  monocle  and  turned  toward  the  stage, 
where  a  picturesque  scene  showed  the  village  of  Waldheim. 

A  beautiful  sumrner  morning;  amid  the  peace  of  nature  rises 
the  song  of  the  children;  then  the  waltz  movement,  the  lively 
motif  that  announces  Carlotta's  arrival. 

"  The  musical  phrase,"  said  the  Count,  "  corresponds  to  the 
freshness  of  the  village  maiden ;  see  how  frank  and  sincere  it  is ; 
notice  its  rhythms,  so  full  of  originality  and  joy." 

"  I  don't  know  this  opera,"  said  Alejandro.  "  I  doubt  very 
much  whether  Massenet  can  have  represented,  or  rather,  reflected 
in  music,  the  soul  of  Werther;  for,  if  I  remember  rightly,  he  was 
above  all  passionately  fond  of  nature.  This  passion,  not  so 
much  for  Carlotta  as  for  nature,  is  a  strange  sentiment, —  a  deep 
one,  and  most  difficult  to  express.  ...  I  doubt  ..." 

" — Very  well,"  replied  the  Count  enthusiastically,  and  with 
unwonted  spirit  seizing  Alejandro's  arms  and  bending  over  the 
red  velvet  railing  to  hear  more  plainly  the  voices  and  the  orches- 
tra,— "  this,  precisely  this,  is  what  Massenet  has  accomplished 
with  poetry,  passion, —  with  the  passion  of  a  soul  dominated  by 
emotion.  ...  Do  you  hear?  Do  you  hear,  Alejandro?  "  he 
added,  pressing  his  friend's  arm  more  tightly.  .  .  .  "  What 
Werther  is  singing  now,  before  the  entrance  to  the  house,  in  this 
beautiful  morning,  and  what  the  orchestra  is  singing  with  him, 
is  a  homage,  a  hymn  to  nature  rather  than  to  woman.  .  .  .  Isn't 
that  so?  ...  Listen,  friend  Roberto  ...  ah!  that  violoncello 
solo  .  .  .  and  now  the  violin,  the  preludes  from  the  harps,  the 
clear  and  tenuous  tones  of  the  flutes, —  all  this  song  of  ecstasy 
above  an  accompaniment  that  undulates  and  throbs,  recalls  the 
fields,  and  has  a  scent  of  summer,  the  odor  of  ripe  grain,  of  new- 


1 

96  PAX 

mown  hay,  the  murmur  of  the  zephyrs  in  the  vine  leaves,  the 
coolness  of  the  water  that  flows  murmurously  through  the  flower- 
mottled  meadow." 

Only  two  boxes  had  remained  unoccupied  in  the  thronged 
auditorium. 

There  was  a  bang  of  doors, —  trie,  trac  —  and  into  these  two 
boxes,  amid  a  shuffling  of  chairs  and  the  striking  of  canes  that 
caused  all  eyes  to  turn  in  that  direction,  thus  destroying  the 
harmony  of  the  moment,  there  appeared  Landaburo,  Gonzalez 
Mogollon,  Mata,  Agiieros, —  the  guests  of  the  political  banquet 
—  who  noisily  took  their  places. 

Landaburo  placed  himself  in  the  center  of  one  of  the  boxes, 
between  Karlonoff  and  Mata;  he  folded  his  gloves  across  the 
railing,  thrust  out  his  chest,  arranged  his  pink,  coughed,  swept 
the  theater  with  his  circular  glance,  flattered  to  see  that  although 
he  was  interrupting  the  performance,  he  had  become  the  target 
of  all  eyes.  In  the  rear  of  the  box  flashed  Doctor  Agiieros' 
spectacles.  In  the  furtherest  corner,  Roberto's  opera-glasses 
espied  Alcon's  pale  bald  head. 

'r''*""  That  is  the  group,"  said  Roberto  to  Bellegarde,  "  which,  not 
understanding  art,  would  enjoy  the  sport  of  war." 
>—" Alejandro,  in  ill  humor,  wrinkled  his  brow  and  added :   >•— • 

"  And  just  as  they  have  come  now  to  interrupt  the  perform- 
ance, for  the  sake  of  being  seen,  so  they  wish  to  disturb  the  peace 
and  the  prosperity  which  our  country  now  enjoys." 

The  audience  soon  settled  back  and  centered  its  attention  anew 
upon  the  stage.  Werther  and  Carlotta,  in  the  moonlight,  are 
singing  a  love  duet,  filled  with  memories  and  with  supreme  fare- 
wells. With  chaste  and  tender  speech  she  exclaimes,  "  We  must 
part  .  .  ."  And  after  a  melody  that  rises  and  falls,  recalling 
the  breath  of  the  zephyrs,  the  twinkling  of  a  star,  the  mystery  of 
the  night,  the  orchestra  plays  its  prelude  of  gloomy  farewell ;  the 
harmony  of  the  accompaniment  vibrates,  the  glacial  gust  passes, 
the  persistent,  somber  bass  sighs. 

The  curtain  fell.  Roberto,  between  the  acts,  paid  a  visit  to 
the  Ines's  box;  no  sooner  had  the  knob  moved  than  she  turned 
around,  greeting  him  with  a  gentle  inclination  of  her  neck  and 
shoulders.  Up  to  that  moment  she  had  been  cold  and  serious; 
at  once,  however,  she  became  lively,  and  a  pink  flush  rose  from 
her  heart  to  her  cheeks.  "  She's  a  marble  statue,"  Dona  Aura 


NOSTALGIA  FOR  DEATH  97 

had  commented  in  the  opposite  box;  but  noticing  how  animated 
Ines  had  become,  the  poetess  bent  over  and  whispered  something 
behind  her  fan  into  Mata's  ear.  From  this,  Roberto  and  Ines 
guessed  that  they  were  the  topic  of  the  conversation.  In  Dona 
Aura  de  Cardoso's  box  there  was  an  unceasing  stir,  and  she, 
exuberant,  her  eyes  smiling  through  her  gold-rimmed  glasses, 
with  a  certain  forced  animation  by  which  she  tried  to  conceal 
her  forty  years,  turned  this  way  and  that,  shook  hands  with 
Mata,  Agiieros,  Landaburo  and  all  the  rest  who  came  to  visit 
her  and  court  her  in  homage  to  her  husband's  position  as  "an 
international  conspirator,"  the  "  champion  of  Revaluation," 
"  the  immortal  Cardoso." 

At  the  back  of  Dona  Teresa's  box  was  General  Ronderos,  si- 
lent, frowning,  biting  at  his  mustache.  He  had  come  only  to 
please  and  accompany  Dona  Teresa ;  it  had  been  some  time  since 
he  had  gone  to  the  theater;  the  spectacle  brought  to  mind  other 
festivities;  between  the  stage  and  his  glance  there  arose  scenes 
from  the  past;  in  spirit  he  lived  again  long  years  of  his  life;  his 
stormy  youth;  Mirandola  and  Rosina's  company;  the  balls  and 
the  banquets  given  by  his  father;  that  first  love  affair,  the  fatal 
duel;  the  death  of  his  adversary,  his  escape  from  the  country, 
his  residence  in  Europe  so  many  years;  the  return  to  his  native 
land;  his  happy  marriage,  his  labors  in  the  country  bordering 
the  Magdalena ;  his  rehabilitated  fortune ;  his  wife's  death ;  then 
that  of  his  daughter,  in  a  hunting  accident;  his  loneliness;  then 
politics,  to  forget  his  sorrows  in  the  agitation  of  public  life;  his 
love,  now  concentrated  entirely  upon  his  country.  ...  Ah! 
His  country,  for  which  he  had  suffered  so  much!  His  cam- 
paigns, the  determined,  constant  struggle  with  the  Revaluation 
party;  the  endless  conflict;  his  anxiety  to  see  this  nation  peace- 
ful and  happy !  In  vain !  .  .  .  Here  he  had  come  to  the  end  of 
his  years, —  was  already  a  man  with  overwhelming  responsibili- 
ties, and  he  could  see  the  strife  breaking  out  anew,  and,  yonder 
on  the  horizon,  the  threatening  clouds  of  another  tempest.  .  .  . 

"  You're  preoccupied,  General.  .  .  .  Don't  you  care  for  the 
opera?  "  asked  Roberto. 

"The  opera?"  he  repeated,  waking  from  his  thoughts,  re- 
turning from  afar.  "  Yes,  Roberto,  my  boy,  I  am  preoccupied. 
This  Landaburo,  although  he  goes  around  making  speeches 
about  peace,  is  without  doubt  up  to  something.  This  Revalua- 


98  PAX 

tion  party,  as  they  call  it,  or  Revolution  party,  as  I  call  it,  is  by 
no  means  napping.  .  .  .  Just  look  at  them  there,  over  in  that 
virago's  box, —  Seflora  Cardoso's;  there's  a  mysterious  air  about 
them, —  an  air  of  mutual  understanding,  joy.  ...  Ah !  Tubal- 
cain  Cardoso!  It's  many  months  since  he  left  Mexico.  I've 
lost  track  of  him.  .  .  .  Will  he  invade  us?  ...  I've  sent  tele- 
grams to  all  the  consuls.  ..." 

"  Yes,  I  told  you  so  the  other  night,  over  at  Aunt  Teresa's; 
we  must  keep  wide  awake.  .  .  .  But  the  government  counts  on 
many  friends." 

"Friends?  .  .  .  You  can  see  for  yourself;  within  our  own 
party  ranks  there  is  a  group  of  dissenters;  last  night  "  (he  low- 
ered his  voice  and  bent  forward  as  he  added  this),  "  last  night 
there  was  a  meeting  at  the  home  of  that  chump,  Gonzalez  Mo- 
gollon,  for  the  purpose  of  deciding  what  attitude  they  shall  as- 
sume toward  those  agitators.  They've  made  a  peace  pact,  and 
I  call  it  a  war  agreement.  And  among  many  others,  there  were 
present  that  hypocrite  Alcon,  that  swindler  Karlonoff,  and  others 
who  are  supposed  to  be  friends  of  ours,  and  who  yet  obey  San- 
chez Mendez.  And  this  political  banquet.  .  .  .  Yes,  I've  got 
reason  to  be  worried." 

Roberto  left. 

Bellegarde  entered  the  box  and  sat  down  beside  Ines. 

"  You  were  right,"  she  said,  leaning  her  opera-glasses  against 
the  railing  of  the  box, — "  you  were  right:  exquisite  music,  orig- 
inal, novel;  still,  I  don't  quite  understand  it  yet.  ...  I  see,  of 
course,  that  the  orchestra  plays  a  very  important  part;  its  role  in 
the  Italian  operas  we  know  here  is  a  modest,  servant's  one.  .  .  . 
It  seems  to  me  that  in  this  modern  music  the  orchestra  has  risen 
in  the  social  scale,  and  is  in  a  higher  class  than  before  ...  it 
is  as  important  as  the  human  voice." 

"Yes,  indeed,  senorita,  precisely!  .  .  .  and  Massenet  has 
made  so  much  of  a  theme  that  would  have  perhaps  proved  sterile 
to  others.  .  .  .  He  discovered  an  immense  passion  and  drew 
inspiration  from  it.  ...  One  of  those  passions,"  he  continued 
in  a  deeper  tone,  "  which  transform  an  existence,  which  fill  an 
entire  lifetime,  which  inspire  a  man's  every  act." 

"  Yes;  one  of  those  passions,"  commented  Ines  with  an  arch 
smile,  "  that  are  no  longer  in  style.  A  man  who  would  cherish 


NOSTALGIA  FOR  DEATH  99 

such  a  one  to-day  would  appear  ridiculous,  outmoded,  just  as  if 
he  wore  this  day  a  surcoat  and  a  powdered  wig." 

"  And  it  is  strange,"  continued  Bellegarde,  assuming  once 
more  his  cold  voice,  "  that  Goethe  should  describe  this  passion, 
—  such  an  intense  passion, —  and  so  sincere  a  one, —  without 
ever  having  felt  it;  his  romantic  crisis  was  very  soon  over,  like 
a  child's  illness:  slight  and  short." 

"  Then  Goethe  would  have  been  more  noble  had  he  felt  the 
passion  and  not  described  it." 

At  this  point  General  Ronderos  and  Dona  Teresa  joined  the 
conversation;  Dona  Teresa  declared  frankly  that  she  preferred 
Carmen  or  Cavalleria  Rusticana;  the  music  of  these  operas  was 
much  more  understandable,  and,  above  all,  more  happy;  the 
toreador's  song  was  one  of  her  favorite  pieces.  .  .  .  She  couldn't 
stand  sad,  melancholy  music.  .  .  .  There  were  enough  troubles 
and  afflictions  in  the  real  world  without  going  to  the  theater  to 
add  to  them  with  feigned  sorrows. 

"  Don't  you  agree  with  me,  Ronderos  ?  " 

He,  however,  excused  himself  on  the  grounds  of  utter  incom- 
petence in  the  matter  of  music ;  he  recalled  having  read  Werther 
with  much  pleasure,  some  time  before,  and  had  realized  that  the 
book  revealed  a  morbid  imagination  and  contained  a  powerful 
poison,  of  great  strength,  as  he  had  told  himself,  and  a  glorifi- 
cation of  suicide. 

"  In  short,"  he  concluded,  "  it  wouldn't  surprise  me  that  an 
edition  of  Werther  should  have  an  immense  success  in  this  coun- 
try ;  for  the  book  would  harmonize  with  the  dominant  passion  of 
the  land:  the  passion,  the  mania  of  destruction;  a  very  powerful 
poison,  the  impulse  to  annihilate  whatever  is  left  standing;  the 
suicidal  craze,  the  nostalgia  for  death." 

The  bell  announced  the  rise  of  the  curtain.  Bellegarde  arose 
and  bowed  to  Ines. 

"  I  happen  to  think,  at  this  moment,"  he  said,  "  of  the  words 
with  which  Werther  described  to  his  friend  the  passion  that 
dominates  him.  '  Ah,  come  what  may,  I  cannot  say  that  I  have 
not  known  happiness.' — "  And  bowing  still  lower:  "  *  I  en- 
joy all  the  happiness  that  has  been  given  to  man.'  " 

He  withdrew  backwards,  bowed  ceremoniously  at  the  door, 
and  left. 


100  PAX 

Roberto  had  gone  off  in  search  of  Alejandro;  he  had  not 
found  him  in  his  box,  so  he  walked  toward  the  stage,  opened  the 
door  that  communicated  to  the  wings,  and  crossed  behind  the 
scenery.  In  La  Rondinelli's  dressing-room  stood  Landaburo, 
Mata  and  Karlonoff,  in  heated  discussion. 

Karlonoff  was  continuing  a  monologue: 

"  In  the  innovations  which  I  made  in  the  construction  of  this 
theater  I  took  as  model  the  theater  at  Bayreuth,  the  cornerstone 
of  which  was  laid  in  1872;  it  was  not  opened,  however,  till  1876. 
Some  ignorant  architects  say  that  the  good  acoustics  of  an  audi- 
torium is  all  a  matter  of  accident;  that's  an  egregious  error. 
The  Scala  theater  holds  more  than  three  thousand  spectators, 
while  the  model  theater  of  Bayreuth  can  accommodate  only  one 
thousand,  seven  hundred  and  fifty-eight.  ..." 

Alejandro,  seated  upon  the  red  plush  sofa,  was  examining  the 
painting  upon  a  fan.  La  Rondinelli,  at  the  dressing-table, 
which  was  laden  with  bottles,  was  combing  her  hair,  as  she 
sucked  her  lozenge ;  she  was  complaining  of  the  effort  it  required 
to  sing,  and  of  the  defective  acoustics  of  the  auditorium.  Mala- 
testa,  who,  leaning  against  the  door,  was  gulping  down  a  glass  of 
beer,  ventured  the  observation  that  this  defect  had  not  existed 
the  past  season,  when  he  had  sung  there.  The  evil  was  due  to 
an  alteration  that  had  recently  been  made. 

"  Yes,"  agreed  la  Rondinelli,  turning  her  head.  "  They  say 
that  the  theater  has  been  spoiled  now,  by  some  Russian  or  Polish 
scholar  ...  a  fellow  by  the  name  .  .  .  what's  his  name, 
now?" 

"  I  have  it,"  said  Malatesta— "  A  Russian,  wasn't  he?  No 
...  he  must  have  been  a  German.  .  .  .  Kar  .  .  .  Karlonoff. 
.  .  .  That's  it!  "  he  exclaimed  in  his  resonant  voice.  ..."  A 
stupid  barbarian,  that  Karlonoff." 

All  suppressed  their  laughter.  One  of  the  visitors,  unable  to 
restrain  himself  any  longer,  exploded. 

"  What  are  they  laughing  at?  "  asked  la  Rondinelli. — "  Why 
did  that  gentleman  leave  ?  " 

"  Ha !  Ha !  "  they  replied.  "  Didn't  you  know  ?  That  was 
Karlonoff." 

"  Impossible !  "  exclaimed  Malatesta.  "  A  Russian  .  .  . 
that  .  ,  ." 


NOSTALGIA   FOR  DEATH ,  . 


101 


"Impossible!"  burst  from  la  Rondinelli.  "That  ...  the 
Polish  scholar?  Ha!  Ha!" 

And  the  entire  company  laughed  heartily. 

Ganzalez  asked  a  benefit  for  the  Teaching  Hospital. 

"  What  grace,"  said  Alejandro,  "  what  art,  mademoiselle,  you 
put  into  those  three  notes  of  the  theme,  that  afterwards  are  in- 
terwoven into  the  orchestral  score;  that  last  theme,  so  pure  in  the 
flutes,  so  sparkling  in  the  tones  of  the  harps,  so  drenched  with 
tenderness  in  the  violoncellos!  " 

"  Those  three  dominating  notes,  unless  I  am  mistaken,"  said 
Roberto,  "  I  have  heard  before,  arranged  in  the  same  manner,  in 
La  Patrie  and  in  Cavalleria  Rusticana." 

"You  don't  say  so!  " 

"  Certainly  you  have  a  wonderful  memory!  "  exclaimed  Mala- 
testa.  "Really!" 

Landaburo,  who  could  not  remain  silent  for  long,  began : 

"  I  understand  " —  and  he  waved  his  arm  as  if  he  were  brand- 
ishing a  sword — "I  understand  but  one  theme:  the  blast  of 
victory!  I  understand  only  one  instrument:  the  drum,  which 
speaks  its  mind  frankly." 

"  Mademoiselle  Rondinelli,"  said  Doctor  Agiieros,  with  his 
affected  manner,  passing  his  fingers  through  his  hair, — "  allow 
me  to  recommend  a  recipe, —  some  throat  lozenges.  They  will 
strengthen  your  voice  and  counteract  the  acoustic  deficiencies  of 
the  stage.  .  .  .  My  clinical  professor  in  Paris,  Doctor  La- 
place .  .  ." 

"  Ready?  "  asked  the  prompter  in  the  doorway.  "  Shall  we 
sound  the  first  signal?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Ah !  The  bugle, —  there's  another  noble  instrument,"  con- 
tinued Landaburo.  "  Now  in  the  last  revolution,  in  my  famous 
charge  upon  the  heights  of  Gachaneque,  thanks  to  the 
bugle  .  .  ." 

"The  bugle?"  exclaimed  Karlonoff,  who  had  glided  back 
into  their  midst, — "  the  bugle  was  one  of  the  worst  errors  com- 
mitted by  Napoleon  at  Austerlitz,  and  by  Bolivar  at  Boyaca. 
Modern  tactics  have  suppressed  it.  Signals,  in  order  to  avoid 
discovery  by  the  enemy,  should  be  made  by  the  kepis." 

The  second  call  sounded.     All  left  except  Mata,  who  wished 


102  PAX 

to  remain  alone  with  la  Rondinelli  to  declare  his  passion.  But 
she,  occupied  in  giving  the  finishing  touches  to  her  eyes  with  the 
pencil,  paid  no  attention  to  what  the  symbolistic  poet  said. 

"  Werther's  passion  is  a  suggestive  one,  seiiorita.  ...  A 
hopeless  passion.  .  .  .  Will  mine  be  the  same?  .  .  .  Werther 
did  well  to  commit  suicide.  Suicide  is  the  most  fitting  end  for 
a  brain  that  is  superior  to  its  epoch.  ..." 

Third  call:  a  bell.  The  boxes  and  chairs  began  to  fill  up. 
The  curtain  rose:  Carlotta  is  in  her  room,  alone;  it  is  night; 
she  reads  and  re-reads  Werther's  letters;  and  the  music  follows 
the  reading  of  the  letters,  echoing  the  phrases  of  love  and  sad- 
ness. Carlotta  reads  aloud:  "  I  write  from  my  lonely  room," 
and  the  progress  of  the  musical  phrase,  the  pauses  of  the  orches- 
tra, the  foreboding  quiver  of  the  basses, —  all  accompany  the 
thought,  all  express  abandonment,  absence,  suffering.  Carlotta 
takes  another  letter:  "  The  merry  songs  of  the  children  come  in 
through  my  window,"  and  then  the  orchestra  changes  mood,  be- 
comes vivacious,  laughs,  plays,  as  if  expressing  childish  anima- 
tion. The  beloved  one  reads  the  last  sentence:  "  Will  we  ever 
meet  again?  .  .  .  Never!  Never!  "  Whereupon  Carlotta  be- 
comes silent;  but  then  the  orchestra,  interpreting  the  grief,  utters 
a  mighty,  crashing  chord. 

Landaburo  and  Doctor  Agiieros  entered  Dona  Aura  de  Car- 
do'so's  box;  they  began  to  speak  in  a  low  voice,  with  serious  ex- 
pressions, and  the  countenance  of  the  poetess  gradually  lost  its 
jovial  aspect,  grew  pale  and  more  serious  with  each  passing 
moment. 

On  the  stage  the  great  duet  between  Carlotta  and  Werther 
was  going  on, —  a  scene  of  hushed  declamation  between  the  sim- 
ple village  maiden  and  the  agitated  thinker,  and  in  that  room  in 
which  the  very  objects  seemed  to  evoke  recollections  of  love,  the 
gloomy  dialogue  continued,  insinuated  by  the  human  voice,  ac- 
centuated by  the  plaints  of  the  orchestra.  Werther  leaves  and 
bids  farewell  forever. 

Suddenly  there  comes  a  scream  from  Dona  Aura's  box.  A 
fan  falls  to  the  pit ;  all  heads  are  turned  upon  the  spot,  and  be- 
hold the  poetess,  pale  and  leaning  upon  Landaburo's  arm,  leaves 
her  box.  The  great  news  circulates  throughout  the  theater: 
General  Tubalcain  Cardoso,  the  "  great  absent  one,"  has  died 
in  the  desert  of  Tarapaza. 


• 


NOSTALGIA  FOR  DEATH  103 

After  a  moment's  disturbance  in  the  auditorium  all  opera- 
glasses  are  once  more  turned  to  the  stage ;  the  third  act  continues. 
A  messenger  from  Werther  brings  a  letter  to  Carlotta's  husband : 
"  Send  me  the  pistols;  I  am  about  to  go  on  a  long  journey." 
And  Carlotta  herself,  innocently,  unaware  of  her  lover's  inten- 
tions, hands  over  the  arms  in  a  mute  scene;  the  human  voice  is 
silent  and  the  tragic  episode  is  accompanied  by  a  single  cry, — 
a  tremor  from  the  orchestra. 

"Do  you  hear  that,  Roberto?"  asked  Bellegarde.  "We're 
now  at  the  most  tragic  moment  of  the  opera,  in  which  the  per- 
sonages must  be  silent  and  the  instrumental  music  has  the  right, 
or  rather,  the  duty,  to  speak  for  them." 

Werther  commits  suicide:  "  Farewell,  nature;  garb  yourself 
in  mourning.  Your  child,  your  friend,  your  favorite,  ap- 
proaches his  end."  The  curtain  falls.  There  is  an  outburst  of 
applause;  the  artists  are  called  several  times  before  the  curtain; 
a  group  of  enthusiasts  goes  behind  the  stage  to  congratulate 
them.  Roberto  and  Alejandro  stumble  across  Mata  in  a  dark 
corner,  behind  a  piece  of  scenery,  pale  and  with  a  sinister  look 
in  his  eyes.  He  is  about  to  imitate  Werther;  the  contagion  of 
suicide  has  fascinated  him;  a  revolver  glistens  in  his  hands; 
Alejandro  tears  it  out  of  his  grasp;  Gonzalez  Mogollon,  who  has 
come  to  insist  upon  a  benefit  performance,  intervenes: 

"  No,  give  him  back  his  weapon.  Mata  has  no  intention  of 
doing  that.  I'll  bet  my  head  on  it.  I'm  going  to  enter  him  on 
the  Compulsory  Salvation's  list  of  members." 

"  It's  strange,"  commented  Bellegarde  to  Alejandro,  in  the 
vestibule  of  the  exit,  while  he  raised  the  collar  of  his  coat 
against  the  cold  gusts  that  came  from  the  street.  "  Here,  in  a 
privileged  country,  they  don't  think  of  life,  of  happiness,  of  art, 
of  the  sheer  joy  of  existence,  but  rather  of  destruction,  of  war,  of 
suicide.  This  young  fellow,  this  Seiior  Mata,  who  has  talent, 
and  a  future,  plans  suicide.  Does  this  rich  country,  favored 
by  God,  plan  suicide,  too?  ...  How  strange  this  mysterious 
fascination  is.  .  .  ." 

Roberto  offered  an  explanation: 

" — A  mystery?  ...  a  fascination?  .  .  .  It's  the  nostalgia 
for  death." 


104 

CHAPTER  X 


MONTELLANO,  installed  in  the  ancient  home  of  the  Avilas,  is 
writing  in  his  office,  a  vast  room  upon  the  walls  of  which  hang 
the  plans  of  his  estates.  The  crude  light  which  enters  through 
the  open  balcony  windows,  strikes  cold  glints  from  the  iron  safe, 
from  the  copying-press,  from  the  copper  clasps  of  the  account 
books  and  from  the  varnish  of  the  shelves.  He  is  sending  out 
telegrams,  orders,  instructions  to  every  corner  of  the  Republic, 
in  which  he  maintains  in  constant  motion  a  veritable  army  of 
employees,  to  whom  Montellano  is  always  present,  and  who 
imagine  that  they  can  hear  his  grumbling  voice  at  every  moment, 
dominating  all  else:  "  Increase  rent  by  one  hundred  twenty- 
three  thousand  dollars.  .  .  ."  "  Demand  payment  from  Pepe 
Redondo  without  accepting  any  excuses.  ..."  "  Give  salt  to 
cattle;  indispensable  increase  jugs  milk.  .  .  ."  "  Buy  up  or- 
ders for  payment  and  stopped  military  pensions,  but  don't  give 
any  more  than  thirty  per  cent  of  their  value.  ..."  "  Sell 
cattle  dead  from  epidemic,  look  out  for  confiscation.  .  .  ."  It 
is  absolutely  necessary  for  the  gigantic  machine  to  keep  going, 
without  stopping  for  a  moment;  from  every  direction  there  must 
come  flowing  streams  of  money  to  fill  that  insatiable  monster 
that  lurks  in  a  corner  with  open  jaw:  the  iron  safe.  At  times 
he  pauses,  hesitates,  concentrates  his  thoughts;  his  black,  round 
eyes  assume  the  hard,  external  brilliancy  of  an  eagle's;  it  seems 
that  from  his  eerie  he  surveys  the  entire  panorama  of  the  repub- 
lic; his  glance  sweeps  immeasurable  expanses;  yonder  he  dis- 
covers, in  an  obscure  spot  accessible  only  to  him,  a  bit  of  prey,  a 
certain  profit.  During  his  meditation  he  remains  as  if  in  ec- 
stasy, while  he  moves  his  fingers  in  unconscious  spasms,  and  as 
soon  as  he  has  come  to  a  decision,  in  the  violence  of  his  desire 
he  opens  his  hand  and  then  slowly  half  closes  it. 

Through  the  windows  come  the  noises  of  the  city,  which  is 
beginning  to  stir,  and  the  morning  breeze,  which  ruffles  the 
covers  of  the  lounges  and  the  tablecloth;  a  distant  din  is  heard, 
—  a  confusion  of  bells,  the  rolling  of  wheels  and  the  clatter  of 
hoofs,  the  snap  of  whips,  whistles  ...  the  commotion  ap- 


IN  THE  EAGLE'S  TALONS  105 

preaches  and  grows  louder  .  .  .  the  street-car  passes  by,  and 
there  is  .heard  the  persistent,  monotonous  clang  of  a  bell  that 
summons  folk  to  mass;  from  the  street,  footsteps,  clearing  of 
throats,  the  rumble  of  carts  and  carriages. 

From  a  neighboring  room  are  wafted  the  clear,  mechanical 
tones  of  the  piano  at  which  Dolores  is  studying :  do-re-mi-f a-sol- 
la-si-do  .  .  .  do-si-la-sol-fa-mi-re-do.  .  .  ." 

A  soft  tap  at  the  door. 

"Come  in!" 

Amid  the  sound  of  beads  and  medallions  there  enter  two 
Sisters  of  Charity.  .  .  .  The  millionaire  envelops  them  in  a 
rapid  glance;  he  makes  a  gesture  of  annoyance;  he  observes  the 
masculine  figure  and  the  square  shoulders  of  Sister  Visitacion, 
and  bows  with  a  movement  of  instinctive  respect  to  Sister  San 
Ligorio.  Every  day  she  is  thinner,  more  spiritualized.  The 
eyes  in  her  dark  sockets  possess  an  ineffable  fascination,  and 
reveal  the  incurable  nostalgia  of  the  exiled,  the  glorious  tran- 
quillity of  hope. 

"What  brings  you  here,  Sisters?  "  asked  Montellano  in  his 
stentorian  voice,  arising  and  taking  several  paces  that  made  the 
floor  tremble. 

All  were  seated;  there  was  a  brief  pause  during  which  the 
room  resounded  with  the  whir  of  the  street-cars  and  the  bell  of 
a  nearby  tower.  The  Sisters  glanced  at  each  other;  it  was  Sister 
San  Ligorio  who  spoke,  and  as  she  did  so,  she  gently  raised  her 
hands,  which  had  been  resting  upon  the  arms  of  the  chair: 
long,  aristocratic  hands,  as  if  made  of  immortal  substance.  Her 
voice,  sadly  musical,  penetrated  to  the  depths  of  one's  soul. 

"  Seiior  Montellano,  we  know  of  your  generosity,  and  we  have 
come  to  ask  alms  for  the  sick  who  cannot  go  to  the  hospitals 
and  who  are  cared  for  by  Sister  Visitacion  and  me  at  their  own 
homes." 

Montellano  whirled  about  on  his  swivel-chair  till  the  spring 
creaked,  and  then  rose. 

"Alms,  my  dear  Sisters?  But  you  can't  imagine  what  a 
plight  I'm  in  ...  the  Bogota  expenditures  are  enormous  .  .  . 
and  these  lessons  Dolores  takes.  ...  I  don't  make  anything  at 
all  ...  nobody  pays  me.  .  .  ." 

He  turned  to  the  wall  and  slapped  a  plan  that  was  signed  by 
Karlonoff. 


106  PAX 

"  There  was  a  fortune  invested  in  the  reconstruction  of  this 
house  alone.  .  .  .  Karlonoff  nearly  ruined  me  with  his  faulty 
plan.  ..." 

As  he  spoke  he  gesticulated  wildly,  assuming  desperate  pos- 
tures. His  voice  drowned  out  the  tumult  of  the  street,  the 
rumble  of  the  carts  and  the  carriages,  the  clatter  of  hoofs,  the 
piercing  cry  of  the  vendors:  "Get  your  lottery  tickets  here! 
.  .  .  La  Revaluation!  .  .  .  La  Integridad!  .  .  .  El  Escorpwn, 
with  a  caricature  ...  !  " 

"  Pardon  us,  Sefior  Montellano,"  said  the  Sister  in  her  melo- 
dious voice.  "  We  shall  return  upon  a  more  propitious  occa- 
sion; our  poor  sick  charges  lack  everything  and  we  are  obliged 
to  have  recourse  to  the  charity  of  compassionate  souls.  .  .  ." 

Once  again  Montellano's  booming  voice  burst  forth. 

"  My  dear  Sisters,  you  own  about  twenty  houses,  half  of  la 
Sabana,  shares  in  every  bank,  funds  in  Europe  .  .  .  rather  than 
my  helping  you,  you  could  come  to  my  aid.  .  .  ." 

The  Sisters  smiled  protestingly,  resignedly,  and  amid  the 
noise  of  their  beads  and  their  medallions  they  walked  to  the 
door. 

"  You  will  obtain  better  information,"  said  Sister  Visitacion, 
turning  to  Montellano.  "  We  will  return  later;  we  lack  no  con- 
fidence in  your  generous  heart." 

"Wait  a  moment!  Wait  a  moment!"  cried  Montellano. 
"  I  don't  want  you  to  leave  empty-handed." 

And  he  began  to  rummage  very  eagerly  through  his  coat 
pocket,  the  pockets  of  his  vest,  of  his  trousers.  At  last  he 
found  two  filthy  bills, —  two  bills  of  a  peso  apiece,  and  he  gave 
them  to  Sister  San  Ligorio. 

"  Heaven  reward  you,  Sefior  Montellano." 

At  the  foot  of  the  staircase  the  Sisters  met  Alejandro,  who,  on 
noticing  them,  grew  suddenly  silent  and  bowed  very  low. 

"  Monsieur  Alexandre,"  said  Sister  Visitacion,  "  why  haven't 
you  come  to  visit  us?  " 

"  I'll  come  to-morrow.  .  .  ." 

After  they  had  gone  he  ascended  the  stairs  hurriedly.  He 
came  across  Alcon  at  the  office  door;  but  Alejandro  walked 
straight  in,  leaving  the  door  open.  Alcon  returned  to  the  gal- 
lery where  he  had  been  waiting,  and  while  Alejandro  was  busy, 
became  engrossed  anew  in  his  reading :  LA  INTEGRIDAD  — 


IN  THE  EAGLE'S  TALONS  107 

Director,  Luis  Sanchez  M&ndez.  He  was  eager  to  taste  the 
pleasure  of  reading  an  article  that  had  been  composed  by  him 
and  Karlonoff  with  the  object  of  thrusting  difficulties  into  the 
way  of  Ronderos  and  his  friends.  How  he  delighted  in  smell- 
ing the  odor  of  fresh  ink  from  his  writings! 

CANALIZATION. —  Our  worthy  readers  have  already  been  informed 
of  the  contract  made  some  three  months  ago  between  his  honor  the 
Minister  of  Finance  and  Senor  Bellegarde.  Acting  as  the  interpreters  of 
the  taste  and  the  wishes  of  our  compatriots  we  wish  to  satisfy  one  and 
the  other  by  gathering  the  views  of  persons  who  understand  the  matter 
and  belong  to  different  classes,  parties  and  professions.  Accordingly  we 
have  sent  questionaires  to  the  gentleman  whose  names  follow.  .  .  . 

Noticing  the  intrusion  of  a  French  idiom,  he  was  thunder- 
struck, as  if  by  an  electric  shock.  He  could  see  that  Karlonoff 
had  at  the  very  last  moment  gone  over  the  proofs.  He  thought 
he  would  be  lost  if  his  collaboration  in  the  article  should  become 
known,  and  had  resolved  to  hide  his  complicity  at  all  events,  by 
this  grammatical  error. 

"  The  director  of  La  Integridad,"  ran  the  note  that  had  been  sent 
to  the  persons  listed,  "  in  view  of  your  well-known  competency  in  fiscal 
affairs,  engineering  and  canalization,  respectfully  asks  you  to  reply  to 
the  various  questions  of  the  following  interrogatory,  if  it  be  your  pleasure 
to  do  so." 

From  the  end  of  the  corridor  came  the  scales  and  the  vocal 
exercises  that  Dolores  was  studying ;  —  a  passage  that  was  for- 
ever begun  and  forever  cut  short;  la  Rondinelli's  voice  would 
mingle  with  the  sounds. 

"  Let  us  begin  over  again,  seiiorita." 

Alcon  continued  to  read : 

"1.  In  your  opinion,  is  the  work  of  canalization  a  scientific  possibility? 

2.  Should   complete   faith    be   placed   in   the   plans,    sketches,    outlines 

and  draughts  presented  to  the  Ministry  by  the  French  engineers? 

3.  Would  the  system   of  movable   dikes  be   preferable  to  the   use  of 

dredgers? 

4.  In  this  enterprise,  undertaken  with  foreign  capital,  would  there  not 

be  a  danger  to  national  security  and  in  general  to  the  Latin  race 
in  Americe? 

5.  In  case  a  million  francs  is  placed  into  the  Treasury  as  a  bond,  to 

what  purpose  should  this  money   be  devoted? 

6.  If,  in  your  opinion,  it  should  be  devoted  to  the  amortization  of  our 

weak  currency,  what  procedure  should  be  followed? 


io8  PAX 

The  director  of  La  Integridad  hopes  for  an  early  reply. 

Addressed  to  Doctor  Melchor  J.  Alcon,  publicist  and  philologist. — 
General  Floro  Landaburo,  the  well-known  revolutionist. —  Doctor  Carlos 
Onofre  Sandoval  y  Sabogal,  colonel  of  bridges  and  highways.  Doctor  R. 
Agiieros,  physician. —  S.  C.  Mata,  poet. —  Giovanni  Malatesta,  artist. — 
N.  Gonzales  Mogollon,  merchant. —  Ramon  Montellano,  banker. —  Nic. 
Villafane,  commission  merchant. —  Nabuc.  Benavides,  agriculturalist  and 
coffee  plantation  owner. —  N.  Tapia,  agriculturalist. —  John  K.  Gachar- 
nah,  traveling  agent. —  Escipion  Socarraz,  politician  and  journalist. — 
Terencio  Nochols,  photographer. —  Exposito  Montes,  manufacturer  of 
footwear. —  Neron  Jaspe,  professor  of  tailoring  (studios  in  Dublin  and 
Naples). —  Sinai  Largacha,  book-binder. —  Aura  de  Cardoso,  man  of 
letters." 

Alcon  stopped  reading  with  a  start,  for  from  the  office  came 
the  sounds  of  an  altercation  between  the  millionaire's  bellowing 
voice  and  that  of  Alejandro,  which  was  quivering  with  rage. 

"  It's  already  two  months  since  we  closed  the  sale  of  Ceba- 
deros,  and  we  haven't  finished  yet." 

"  The  deed  was  signed  yesterday.  What  more  do  you  wish, 
Don  Alejandro?  " 

"  I'm  all  out  of  patience:  after  endless  chaffering  we  fixed  a 
price  of  55,000  dollars.  .  .  .  When  it  came  to  signing  the  docu- 
ments you  suddenly  discovered  that  you  would  have  to  remodel 
the  house  of  the  estate.  .  .  .  Whereupon  we  had  to  draw  up 
another  deed  at  the  notary's,  and  there  you  added,  without  even 
consulting  me,  that  the  expenses  of  the  registry  and  the  notary's 
fee  would  be  paid  by  me.  I  agreed  to  that,  too.  ..." 

"  Well,  if  you  agreed,  what  are  you  complaining  about,  Don 
Alejandro?  " 

"  Two  weeks  later,  when  you  gave  me  your  word  of  honor 
that  nothing  would  be  altered  in  the  document,  you  added  a  new 
clause.  ..." 

"  You  mean  that  about  the  walls?  "  asked  the  raucous  voice. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  angry  one. 

"  Why,  you  agreed  to  that,  too." 

"  At  last,  Don  Ramon,  the  document  was  signed  yesterday,  in 
which  you  yourself  had  set  down  that  you  would  pay  55,000 
dollars  in  gold  or  in  letters  of  exchange.  ..." 

"  Very  well.  And  didn't  I  give  you,  yesterday,  when  the 
paper  was  signed,  the  letters  of  exchange  ?  " 

"  Not  on  Europe,  though,  but  on  the  square  of  Manizales, 


IN  THE  EAGLE'S  TALONS  109 

and  I  haven't  been  able  to  find  a  purchaser.  .  .  .  Nobody  needs 
funds  in  Manizales." 

"  That's  easily  arranged." 

"  Will  you  give  me  gold?  " 

"  Not  quite  that.  My  dear  Alejandro,  you  confessed  freely, 
at  the  notary's,  that  you  were  fully  satisfied.  I'll  exchange  the 
letters  on  Manizales  for  some  on  Europe,  if  you  allow  me  a 
rebate." 

"  I  had  confidence  in  your  good  faith,  Montellano,  and  I  was 
mistaken.  How  much  must  I  pay  for  my  blunder?  " 

"  Let's  fix  it  at  50,000  dollars  even  money." 

"  To  me  it's  a  question  of  honor, —  something  that  you  don't 
understand.  I  promised  to  pay  Bellegarde  to-day  the  value  of 
the  shares  that  he  gave  me  months  ago,  trusting  in  my  word." 

Alcon  heard  the  door  close  violently,  and  shortly  afterward 
saw  Alejandro,  his  cheeks  flaming  red  and  his  eyes  flashing, 
cross  the  corridor  that  resounded  with  the  anger  of  his  footsteps 
and  stride  toward  the  staircase. 

"  My  dear  Doctor  Alcon,"  said  Montellano,  taking  him  by  the 
arm  and  leading  him  to  a  couch  upon  which  the  sunshine  was 
playing.  "  Who  could  ever  have  prophesied  that  you  would  be- 
come one  of  our  learned  men,  one  of  our  most  important  political 
figures!  " 

The  pale  bald  pate  of  the  learned  man  flushed  crimson. 
They  sat  down.  Montellano  lighted  a  cigar,  stretched  out  his 
feet  and  emitted  voluminous  puffs  of  smoke. 

Silence.  Into  the  room,  through  the  balconies,  comes  the  ring 
of  a  bicycle  bell,  the  bark  of  a  dog,  the  buzz  of  conversations, 
whistles,  the  footsteps  of  passers-by  upon  the  flagging. 

The  piano  lesson  having  been  finished,  the  singing  lesson  fol- 
lowed. Through  the  open  door  came  the  sounds  of  Dolores' 
clear  voice  singing  the  well-known  aria  from  Carmen: 

L'amour  est  enfant  de  Boheme 

II  n'a  jamais  connu  de  loi; 

Si  tu  ne  m'aimes  pas,  je  t'aime, 

Si    je    t'aime    prends    garde    a    toi.  .  .  . 

The  sentiment  sounded  strange  in  this  temple  of  Mammon,  in 
which  reigned  only  the  brutal  egotism  of  commercial  combina- 
tions, the  lust  for  gain,  for  huge  profits. 


no  PAX 

Montellano  stood  up,  closed  the  door  with  the  key  and,  after 
sucking  powerfully  at  the  cigar,  exclaimed : 

"Dolores  has  turned  the  house  into  a  school;  ten  lessons  a 
day:  piano,  singing,  painting,  deportment,  grammar,  French, 
Italian,  history  .  .  .  and  it's  all  bosh ;  if  she  only  knew  how  to 
cook,  that  would  be  plenty." 

At  the  mention  of  Dolores,  the  ivory  pate  was  bathed  in  a 
purple  glow. 

"  Friend  Alcon,  you  are  a  wise  man;  the  kind  I  like;  you'll 
make  headway.  You  have  chosen  the  career  which  in  this  coun- 
try can  lead  you  to  the  most  elevated  positions,  the  highest  posts : 
grammar,  literature.  You  entered  the  government  service  and 
got  into  the  ministry  by  supporting  General  Ronderos  in  the 
press,  in  El  Sosten  Oficial,  and  then,  very  naturally, —  and  I 
heartily  applaud  your  course, —  in  order  to  advance,  you  joined 
the  integro  party,  which  confers  a  stamp  of  honesty,  useful  for 
whatever  operation  you  may  engage  in." 

The  learned  man  kept  prudently  silent  and  Montellano  con- 
tinued, drawing  closer  and  closer  and  enveloping  him  in  his 
aquiline  glance,  which  was  now  soft,  caressing,  fascinating. 

"  If  they  were  to  throw  you  out  of  the  Ministry  under  such 
circumstances,  it  would  be  said  that  it  was  through  fear  of  your 
legal  knowledge, —  because  you  had  discovered  hidden  manipu- 
lations, speculation,  indications  of  graft." 

Then,  lowering  his  voice,  and  assuming  an  even  more  confi- 
dential tone: 

"The  government  has  this  Sabanilla  railroad;  I  know  that 
the  canalization  project  is  making  headway  and  has  the  river 
at  Bocas  de  Ceniza  all  cleared;  the  moment  ships  begin  sailing 
up  that  way,  the  railroad  will  be  left  without  any  business;  it 
will  produce  nothing, —  it  will  be  worth  nothing.  Nevertheless, 
I  would  buy  it  for  a  small  price,  on  terms.  .  .  .  Do  you  wonder 
that  I  should  care  to  purchase  a  fallen,  ruined  enterprise? 
Well,  my  friend,  I  have  had  plenty  of  experience,  I  know  the 
country,  and  unforeseen  contingencies  may  arise  .  .  .  and  to- 
gether with  them  would  come  the  failure  of  the  canalization 
project,  the  depreciation  of  money.  ..."  And  as  if  he  could 
already  behold  his  profits,  and  already  hear  the  torrent  of  bills 
that  was  to  fall  upon  his  safe,  Montellano  involuntarily  passed 


IN  THE  EAGLE'S  TALONS  111 

his  hand  nervously  along  his  arm,  along  the  back  of  the  chair, 
across  the  seat  of  the  lounge. 

Alcon,  who,  while  his  friend  was  speaking,  had  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  design  of  the  carpet,  raised  his  glance  and  di- 
rected it  straight  into  Montellano's  eyes,  letting  it  fall  again. 
Montellano,  now  enthusiastic,  continued: 

"I'd  like  you  also  to  help  me  in  the  matter  of  that  govern- 
ment loan  that  I  have  pending  with  Ronderos,  so  that  he'll  take 
at  least  half  of  it  in  orders  for  payment.  This  is  the  most  im- 
portant thing  for  the  present.  .  .  .  And  another  very  important 
matter:  to  suspend  or  withdraw  the  funds  of  the  1848  bonds. 
.  .  .  That's  easy  .  .  .  that  would  be  a  saving." 

Somebody  knocked  loudly  at  the  door.  Alcon,  frightened,  at 
once  arose,  coughed,  spoke  gruffly  and  turned  toward  the  door. 
As  he  accompanied  his  visitor  to  the  door,  Montellano  said: 

"  You  won't  be  sorry  for  it,  my  dear  Alcon  .  .  .  you  won't 
regret  it.  ..." 

Polanco,  the  millionaire's  agent,  had  arrived  the  previous 
evening  from  la  Costa.  He  was  a  pleasant  young  man,  with 
refined,  bronze  features  and  sparkling  eyes.  He  informed  his 
chief  that  he  had  carried  through  the  operation  that  had  been 
commanded, —  the  purchase  of  the  cultivated  land  bordering 
upon  the  River  Magdalena,  for  the  purpose  of  selling  them  in 
turn  to  the  canalization  commission,  who  had  urgent  need  of 
them.  An  enormous  and  immediate  profit  would  thus  be  made. 

On  learning  of  the  conditions  of  the  purchase,  Montellano 
burst  into  protest ;  he  had  been  pledged  to  pay  the  high  price  in 
cash. 

"  It's  no  use;  whatever  I  don't  do  myself  is  simply  botched. 
There's  no  way  of  getting  you  fellows  sufficiently  interested  to 
put  energy  and  intelligence  into  business  affairs.  .  .  .  And  how 
about  the  canalization?  " 

"  They're  making  excellent  headway;  plenty  of  people.  .  .  ." 

He  continued  to  explain  matters  to  Montellano,  in  a  voice  that 
rose  and  fell  frequently,  offering  complete  details  as  to  the  point 
reached  by  the  enterprise. 

"  And  how  about  la  Costa?  " 

"There's  plenty  doing;  there's  business;  but  we've  succeeded 
in  creating  general  dissatisfaction,  and  Landaburo,  on  his  tour, 


112  PAX 

has  organized  the  Revaluation  party,  speaking  a  great  deal  about 
the  government's  rashness  and  its  speculations.  If  the  integros 
don't  cause  trouble,  as  they've  done  other  times.  .  .  ." 

"  Very  well,  you'll  keep  me  informed.  And  if  anything  turns 
up,  we'll  carry  out  a  certain  operation  on  the  Sabanilla  rail- 
road." 

A  knock  at  the  door;  Socarraz  crossed  the  salon  noiselessly, 
despite  his  corpulency, —  as  if  he  were  gliding  along. 

He  took  Montellano  to  the  balcony  and  drew  a  manuscript 
from  his  pocket. 

"  Read,  Don  Ramon." 

And  he  read  an  article  entitled :  The  avaricious  wealthy  man, 
in  which  the  populace  was  incited  to  tear  Montellano  to  shreds, 
to  sack  his  place  and  take  possession  of  his  ill-gotten  fortune. 

"  Have  you  finished  it?  "  asked  Socarraz,  fixing  his  slanting 
eyes  upon  the  millionaire.  "  This  and  a  monstrous  caricature 
was  brought  to  me  in  the  office  of  the  Escorpion;  they  would 
have  sold  widely;  but  I  didn't  care  to  publish  them,  despite  my 
opinions." 

Montellano,  who  felt  uneasy  with  the  journalist's  squinting 
glance  turned  upon  him,  and  was  disgusted  with  the  odor  of 
brandy  that  came  from  him,  without  further  ado  drew  from  his 
pocket  a  roll  of  bills  and  offered  it  to  him. 

"  No,  no,  what  I  wish  is  a  place  in  your  enterprises, —  in 
your  tobacco  houses,  your  match  monopoly,  on  one  of  your  ha- 
ciendas. .  .  .  I'm  adaptable  to  everything." 

He  was  about  to  go  on,  when  Neron  Jaspe,  the  professor  of 
tailoring,  with  studios  in  Dublin  and  Naples,  appeared  with  a 
black  bundle  under  his  arm.  Montellano  gladly  seized  upon 
this  opportunity  to  cut  off  Socarraz,  and  turning  eagerly  to 
Neron  Jaspe,  said: 

"  I  was  waiting  for  you,  friend;  fit  on  my  frock  coat." 

He  took  off  his  coat  and  threw  it  upon  the  lounge.  The  tailor 
took  the  frock,  approached  courteously  and  helped  Montellano 
put  it  on.  He  stood  before  his  patron,  straightened  out  the 
shirt,  pulled  once  or  twice  at  the  lapels  and  drew  back  to  survey 
the  work. 

"  Looks  fine,"  he  said,  with  a  satisfied  smile. 

A  gentle  couple  of  knocks  at  the  door. 

"Come  in!  " 


IN  THE  EAGLE'S  TALONS  113 

It  was  Bellegarde.  Noticing  that  Montellano  was  busy  with 
his  tailor,  he  was  about  to  withdraw. 

"Come  right  in,  right  in!"  shouted  Montellano.  "I  was 
wishing  to  see  you  because  I  want  a  favor." 

"  A  favor?  If  it's  at  all  possible  for  me  to  render  it,  con- 
sider it  done." 

"  Not  for  me;  for  this  young  man  " —  and  he  pointed  to  So- 
carraz  — "  who  is  anxious  to  get  a  position." 

Bellegarde  looked  at  Socarraz  sharply,  blinked,  and  hesitated 
for  a  moment.  Then,  recovering  his  formal  attitude: 

"  A  position?  "  he  asked.  "  Do  you  wish  it,  Seiior  Montel- 
lano? " 

"I'll  be  ever  so  much  obliged  to  you.  It  would  be  very  good 
for  you,  for  him,  for  everybody.  ..." 

"  Very  well,"  he  said.  "  Let  him  come  to  my  office  whenever 
he  pleases." 

The  tailor  continued  to  mark  wrinkles  and  stick  in  pins, 
which  he  carried  between  his  lips.  He  bent  over  and  then  arose 
again.  He  took  a  sleeve,  ripped  it  off  and  placed  it  to  one  side. 

"What  brings  you  here?"  asked  Montellano,  turning  to 
Bellegarde  and  gesticulating  with  the  arm  on  which  his  shirt- 
sleeve could  be  seen. 

"  I  came  to  speak  about  the  lands  that  you  have  purchased 
through  Seiior  Polanco  " —  and  he  bowed  to  the  latter  as  he 
mentioned  his  name  — "  on  the  banks  of  the  river.  You  got 
ahead  of  me  there.  Very  good.  You  had  faith  in  the  enter- 
prise, evidently.  I  must  pay  for  being  caught  napping  and  for 
your  faith.  I'm  perfectly  well  satisfied  that  all  the  Colombians 
should  profit  by  it.  Will  you  take  double  the  price  for  these 
lands?  ...  It  would  make  a  profit  .  .  .  pardon  me  a  mo- 
ment." He  drew  out  a  memorandum  book,  performed  a  rapid 
calculation  and  continued :  "A  profit  to  you  of  two  hundred 
thousand  francs." 

Polanco,  who  heard  the  figures  from  where  he  stood,  could  not 
repress  a  gesture  of  satisfaction  and  glanced  at  Montellano 
covetously,  yet  triumphantly,  as  if  in  reply  to  the  recrimina- 
tions and  the  gibes  of  a  moment  before. 

Montellano,  now  inflamed  by  the  fever  of  gain,  began  to  move 
impulsively  about,  while  the  tailor  continued  to  dance  hither 
and  thither  after  him,  tearing  off  the  other  sleeve,  drawing  lines 


114  PAX 

with    chalk    and    indicating    the    places    for   the   buttonholes. 

"  These  lands,"  vociferated  the  millionaire,  waving  both  his 
shirt-sleeves,  "  constitute  the  sole  legacy  of  my  children.  .  .  ." 
He  had  made  such  ruinous  sacrifices  to  be  able  to  purchase  them. 
.  .  .  They  had  cost  him  far  more  than  the  Count  imagined; 
envious  tongues  had  given  him  untrustworthy  information.  .  .  . 
But  he  was  in  great  need  of  money,  in  dire  distress,  pressed  by 
his  creditors  .  .  .  and  perhaps  to  please  the  Count  he  might 
consider  the  sale,  but  not  for  the  sum  offered ;  oh,  no, —  far 
more.  .  .  .  The  success  of  the  project  was  certain;  the  value  of 
these  lands  was  therefore  incalculable,  for  peace  was  firm,  last- 
ing. .  .  . 

As  he  waved  his  arms  the  links  of  the  cuffs  struck  together. 
On  the  white  linen  of  the  cuffs  could  be  seen  figures,  calcula- 
tions, words,  and  notes  written  in  pencil. 

He  paced  to  and  fro,  he  tore  at  his  hair,  he  assumed  the 
desolate  attitudes  of  a  man  on  the  brink  of  bankruptcy  and  burst 
into  a  torrent  of  lamentations. 

"  You  know  me,"  said  Bellegarde  drily.  "  You  know  that  I 
pay  well,  that  I  don't  haggle,  and  that  I  finish  my  business  at  a 
single  sitting.  Take  it  or  leave  it."  And  he  turned  as  if  to  go. 

With  his  rat-like  step  Karlonoff  had  slid  into  the  room, 
waving  a  paper  and  crying : 

"  Sefior,  I've  come  to  collect  my  little  bill.  This  is  the  eighth 
time  that  I'm  presenting  it." 

And  Senor  Montellano  turned  so  bruskly  toward  Karlonoff 
that  he  would  have  thrown  over  the  tailor-professor  and  his 
studios  in  Dublin  and  Naples,  had  not  the  latter  got  out  of  the 
way. 

"  You  and  your  little  bill?  It's  I  who  ought  to  collect  from 
you  for  all  the  damage  you  did  me  with  your  wretched  plan; 
you  almost  forced  me  out  in  the  street." 

Bellegarde  advanced  nearer  to  the  door. 

"  Just  a  moment,"  shouted  Montellano.  "  We'll  come  to  an 
understanding." 

"No,  senor,"  replied  Karlonoff  to  Montellano's  earlier  re- 
mark, pounding  upon  the  plan.  "  It's  true  that  there  was  a 
collapse,  but  that  did  no  harm." 

The  tailor-professor,   Socarraz  and  Polanco  had  formed  a 


THE  HORRORS  OF  PEACE  115 

group  apart,  and  were  whispering,  maintaining  a  mysterious, 
animated  conversation. 

"No  harm?"  exploded  Montellano.  "When  the  walls 
bulged  the  entire  roof  was  damaged,  and  the  beams  gave  way. 
Just  a  moment,  Senor  Bellegarde.  .  .  .  The  ceiling  of  the  hall 
cracked;  the  fleuron  fell  to  the  ground  ...  a  plaster  fleuron. 
.  .  .  Please  wait,  Sefior  Bellegarde,  we'll  easily  come  to  an 
understanding.  .  .  .  The  floor  was  damaged,  too.  ...  So  the 
collapse  did  no  harm,  did  it?  Come  out  into  the  street  and  let 
me  show  you;  you'll  see  with  your  own  eyes  the  size  of  the 
cracks;  your  plan  is  worthless.  .  .  ." 

The  tailor,  alarmed,  seeing  that  his  customer  had  forgotten 
his  coat, —  that  frock  coat  which  was  only  basted  and  lacked 
sleeves  —  ran  after  him.  He  tried  to  hold  him  back  by  the 
coat-tails,  which  ripped  and  remained  hanging. 

Below,  in  the  street,  amid  a  circle  of  curious  bystanders, 
Karlonoff  was  imperturbably  continuing  a  scientific  lecture, 
while  Montellano,  in  his  fragmentary  frock-coat,  with  one  hand 
grasped  the  colonel  of  bridges  and  highways  and  with  the  other 
pointed  to  the  famous  cracks. 

At  this  moment  Bellegarde  happened  to  pass  by,  fleeing  the 
din;  but  the  eagle's  eyes  ferreted  him  out;  the  hand  that  was 
pointing  at  the  wall  slowly  closed;  fearing  that  his  prey  would 
escape  the  millionaire  cried  out: 

"  Bellegarde  .  .  .  agreed !  But  I  want  cash  .  .  .  American 
gold.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   HORRORS   OF   PEACE 

WITHOUT  paying  any  attention  to  the  commotion  that  was 
going  on  in  the  street,  nor  to  the  strange  figure  of  Montellano, 
Roberto  entered  his  former  home.  He  had  brought  with  him 
the  accounts  of  various  establishments,  and  with  this  purpose 
came  to  Don  Ramon's  office  every  day  for  one  or  two  hours  of 
the  morning.  The  millionaire  never  treated  him  with  the  asper- 
ity or  the  recriminations  that  he  used  with  his  employees  and 


ii6  PAX 

agents;  on  the  contrary,  with  general  admiration  and  without 
mumbling,  he  tolerated  his  jests  and  his  lack  of  punctuality. 

Don  Ramon,  who  was  a  great  connoisseur  of  men  and  of  the 
manner  in  which  their  talents  and  aptitudes  might  best  be  ex- 
ploited, esteemed  above  all  Roberto's  reserve;  he  knew  that  his 
dealings  with  that  man  would  always  remain  a  secret,  and  that 
not  a  word  which  was  spoken  in  the  office  would  be  repeated  by 
Roberto.  Besides,  his  accountant  furnished  him  with  exact  data 
concerning  persons  and  things,  and  had  often  given  him  useful 
advice  and  valuable  information,  without  ever  having  asked  for 
the  slightest  share  or  advantage. 

Indeed,  Montellano  was  at  this  very  time  developing  a 
scheme  that  had  been  suggested  to  him  by  his  book-keeper.  An 
old  woman,  in  need  of  money,  had  come  and  offered  him  some 
bonds  of  public  credit  from  the  debt  of  1848.  Montellano 
had  dismissed  the  woman  with  the  utmost  harshness,  and  Ro- 
berto, moved  by  compassion,  had  then  convinced  him  that  those 
papers,  the  holders  of  which  were  in  hard  straits,  would  double 
in  value  on  the  day  on  which  they  were  gathered,  for  solid  funds 
of  amortization  were  alloted  to  them.  Montellano,  after  think- 
ing it  over  and  studying  the  matter  thoroughly,  resolved  to  carry 
it  out,  but  improving  it  in  his  own  way.  In  order  to  gather  all 
the  bonds  at  a  low  price  he  asked  Alcon,  Undersecretary  of 
Finance,  to  have  the  amortization  fund  suppressed,  with  the 
understanding  that  it  would  be  reestablished  and  increased  when 
the  entire  public  debt  was  in  his  hands. 

In  order  to  effect  the  purchase  he  was  careful  not  to  make  use 
of  the  money  changers  or  the  commercial  brokers,  who  would 
have  scented  the  business,  and  he  entrusted  the  operation  to  the 
selfsame  old  lady  that  had  offered  him  the  first  bonds,  as  well  as 
to  other  persons  in  like  circumstances,  who  could  inspire  no 
suspicion  whatever. 

Above  the  portal  of  the  house  there  had  been  preserved,  half 
hidden  by  the  whitening,  the  escutcheon  with  the  thirteen  bezants 
and  the  inscription  Glory  and  Grief;  Roberto  could  hardly  re- 
strain a  movement  of  impatience  at  beholding  the  unsullied 
shield  of  the  Avilas  in  that  lair  of  greed.  He  was  mortified, 
too,  by  the  "  euphonic  green  "  and  the  "  iniquitous  yellow,"  as 
Mata  phrased  it,  with  which  the  stone  pilasters  were  besmeared, 
—  the  cornices  of  the  arches,  the  basin  of  the  fountain.  .  .  . 


THE  HORRORS  OF  PEACE  117 

The  water  continued  its  strange  speech  and  at  times  Roberto 
imagined  he  heard  the  sounds  of  ironic  laughter. 

The  brilliant  green  of  the  bush  of  Castilian  roses  competed 
with  the  "  euphonic  green  "  of  the  balustrade,  and  its  fragrance 
mingled  with  the  odor  of  the  fresh  paint.  Roberto  was  pleased 
to  see  that  the  rose-bush  was  cared  for  diligently  and  that  a 
veritable  milky  way  of  flowers  descended  from  the  balustrade  to 
the  yard. 

The  young  man,  who  had  not  forgotten  that  the  best  of 
flowers  is  a  maiden's  smile,  left  the  roses  and  approached  the 
staircase.  He  knew  that  this  smile  would  be  waiting  for  him  at 
the  top  stair. 

According  to  Montellano's  plans  and  to  Karlonoff's  as  well, 
the  stone  staircase,  which  invaded  one  wing  of  the  house  to  no 
purpose,  had  been  replaced  by  a  central  staircase, —  a  very  high 
one,  which  left  room  for  two  stores  at  a  rental  of  a  hundred 
dollars  each. 

Roberto  stopped  to  rest  a  moment  from  the  fatigue  of  the 
ascent;  at  the  end  of  the  hall  a  lesson  was  interrupted,  a  femi- 
nine hand  drew  aside  a  little  curtain  and  there  appeared  the 
rosy,  turbulent  face  of  Lola,  who,  as  she  smiled,  revealed  the 
shining  white  enamel  of  her  teeth.  Roberto  replied  with  a 
smile.  The  singing  lesson  was  then  resumed :  "  Love  is  a 
child  of  Bohemia.  ..." 

He  entered  the  office,  crossed  it  and  took  his  place  before  a 
high  desk  upon  which  stood  the  books  with  the  copper  clasps. 

Montellano  returned  from  the  street  and  behind  him  came 
Landaburo,  who  was  all  decked  out  in  boots;  spurs,  gauntlets 
and  carried  his  silver-handled  whip. 

Catching  sight  of  him,  Montellano  made  a  gesture  of  annoy- 
ance and  maintained  a  hostile  silence. 

"  General  Polanco,"  cried  Landaburo,  embracing  the  million- 
aire's agent, — "you  here? — "  Then,  in  a  confidential  tone: 
"  I'll  expect  you  to-night  at  my  house;  I  must  talk  with  you  on 
a  very  important  matter." 

Then,  turning  to  Montellano: 

"  I  should  like  to  have  a  few  words  with  you." 

And  as  he  spoke,  he  struck  his  boot  with  his  whip. 

Montellano  preserved  his  severe  frown,  his  hostile  silence. 

Landaburo  tried  to  take  him  amicably  by  the  arm  and  lead 


1 18  PAX 

him  toward  the  window.  At  this  Montellano's  brick-like  com- 
plexion flamed  up  and  he  released  his  arm  bruskly. 

"What  is  the  trouble,  my  dear  friend?  "  exclaimed  Landa- 
buro.  '"  Are  you  angry?  " 

Montellano  exploded. 

"  Didn't  you  say  at  that  political  banquet  that  all  fortunes 
must  be  returned  to  the  people?  That  they  should  not  be  al- 
lowed to  be  passed  on  to  one's  heirs, —  in  other  words,  that  we 
persons  who  have  saved  something  through  our  own  efforts 
should  be  despoiled  of  our  possessions?  ..." 

He  was  about  to  go  on  when  Landaburo  interrupted. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Don  Ramon,  is  that  all?  I  give  you  my  word 
as  a  soldier,  as  a  gentleman  and  as  a  friend,  that  I  had  no 
intention  of  doing  you  any  harm, —  that  those  sentences  were 
directed  neither  against  you  nor  anybody  else.  You  are  too 
intelligent  not  to  understand  that  they  were  for  exportation,  for 
the  mob  that  had  filled  the  doorways,  and  that  a  man  in  my 
position,  upon  whom  are  fixed  the  glances  of  all,  rich  and  poor, 
and  from  whom  the  people  expect  relief  and  prosperity,  must 
utter  sentiments  such  as  those,  just  as  bones  are  thrown  to  dogs, 
so  that  they  may  not  continue  to  be  called  by  their  enemies 
monarchists  and  aristocrats.  But  it  doesn't  mean  anything,  has 
no  importance,  and  no  results.  ..." 

"  No  results?  "  interrupted  Montellano.  "  Do  you  know  that 
I  have  received  anonymous  letters  in  which  I  am  asked  not  for 
alms,  but  for  that  part  of  my  fortune  which  I  am  withholding 
from  the  people,  and  that  some  have  tried  to  suppress  me,  so 
that  they  may  inherit  my  wealth  according  to  your  theories  and 
your  incitation?  " 

"  Well,  then,  to  erase  this  bad  impression  and  to  produce  in 
the  people  a  feeling  of  sympathy  toward  you,  I'll  write  this 
very  moment  for  the  Revaluation  an  article  in  which  I'll  praise 
you  to  the  skies  .  .  .  and  this  very  moment  the  title  occurs  to 
me:  *  Make  way  for  labor!  '  " 

Although  Montellano  was  not  entirely  pacified  by  Landaburo, 
and  did  not  accept  his  protestations,  feeling  a  certain  instinctive 
aversion  to  the  fellow,  he  acted  as  if  he  were  quite  content,  fore- 
seeing the  possibility  of  a  war  in  which  Landaburo  might  ruin 
him  by  developing  his  socialistic  program. 

They  retired  to  the  balcony  window. 


THE  HORRORS  OF  PEACE  119 

"  You  must  know,"  pursued  Landaburo,  "  that  I  represent 
the  house  of  MacGregor,  which  for  the  past  twenty  years  has 
owned  certain  maritime  salt  mines.  You,  Sefior  Montellano, 
have  offered  the  Government  proof  that  my  clients  have  no  valid 
title  to  the  exploitation  of  these  mines,  and  in  exchange  for  this 
service  you  ask  to  have  the  mines  rented  to  you.  Isn't  that  so?  " 

Montellano  nodded  in  confirmation. 

"  Very  well,  then,  I  come,"  continued  the  General,  "  to  pro- 
pose that  you  withdraw  your  offer  and  join  with  us." 

"  Which  proves  to  me,"  replied  Montellano  cunningly,  "  that 
I've  won  out.  I  refuse  to  yield.  I  have  offered  four  hundred 
thousand  pesos  per  year  for  the  salt  mines  that  you  exploit  for 
forty  thousand.  If  I  were  to  accept  the  proposal  that  you  make, 
the  Government  would  lose  three  hundred  and  sixty  thousand 
pesos." 

"  That's  the  best  part  of  the  deal,  Seiior  Don  Ramon,  for 
everything  that  deprives  the  Government  of  resources  is  a  patri- 
otic act.  Furthermore,  if  you  sincerely  desire  the  welfare  of  the 
country,  you  can  accomplish  that  more  effectively  by  preventing 
the  diplomatic  clash  that  I'll  bring  about  if  we  two  don't  come 
to  terms,  and  which  will  undoubtedly  result  in  the  bombardment 
of  Cartagena  and  Buenventura,  or  the  payments  of  a  few  mil- 
lions in  gold.  These  Government  robbers  must  be  given  a 
lesson." 

"  So  that  you  count  upon  the  English  cannon,  and  will  resort 
to  them  ?  "  asked  Montellano  in  surprise. 

Landaburo,  gesticulating  wildly,  then  explained  himself  in  a 
low  voice,  trying  to  win  over  the  millionaire.  The  latter  was  on 
the  point  of  leaving  for  his  office  anew,  but  Landaburo  seized 
his  arm. 

"  I'd  like  to  solicit  something  for  the  poor  Poles;  I'm  raising 
a  subscription  throughout  the  Republic  to  give  them  aid." 

"Nothing,  nothing;  I  give  nothing  to  foreigners;  we  have 
plenty  of  poor  Poles  here,  too." 

"  It's  for  the  Polish  insurrection,  I  tell  you,"  insisted  Landa- 
buro, insinuatingly. 

"  Very  well,  very  well,"  replied  Montellano,  after  a  moment's 
reflection  in  which  he  saw  what  was  really  afoot. — "  Come  back 
some  other  time.  I  know  now  who  your  poor  Poles  are  and 
where  this  uprising  will  take  place.  .  .  .  And  if  you  should 


120  PAX 

happen  to  be  forced  to  leave,  tell  your  family  that  they  may 
count  on  me." 

"  And  you,  friend  Montellano,  may  be  sure  that  I  will  be  in- 
finitely obliged.  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor  as  a  soldier,  as  a 
gentleman  and  as  a  friend.  You  already  know  how  loyal  I  am. 
In  short,  I'll  write  to  MacGregor.  Now  I  must  leave  you,  for  I 
must  finish  my  editorial  for  La  Revaluation;  you'll  see  what  a 
drubbing  I  give  Ronderos.  The  editorial  is  called  *  Klepto- 
mania.' ': 

Montellano,  who  did  not  know  what  the  word  meant,  shrugged 
his  shoulders  as  usual. 

Mincing  footsteps  were  heard  from  the  gallery.  The  curtain 
stirred  with  an  unexpected  gust;  then  came  a  loud  guffaw,  and 
in  walked  Gacharnah,  panting,  with  his  white  vest,  a  gardenia 
in  his  button-hole,  with  gloves  the  color  of  raw  meat,  lavishing 
smiles  on  all  sides  and  waving  his  fat  hands,  which  seemed  to 
multiply  a  hundred  fold  for  the  purpose  of  distributing  effusive 
handclasps. 

"Roberto!  "  he  cried,  "and  how  is  Alejandro?  Strange  to 
find  you  alone,  for  you  always  go  together;  you're  like  Castor 
and  Pollux." 

"And  who  might  Castor  and  Pollux  be?"  asked  Montel- 
lano. 

"  That's  the  firm  name  of  a  couple  of  Greek  commission  mer- 
chants," shouted  Roberto,  as  he  transferred  an  item  from  the 
day-book  to  the  ledger. 

Landaburo  turned  to  his  friends  Polanco  and  Socarraz,  with 
whom  he  established  an  animated  and  mysterious  conversation. 
In  the  meantime  Gacharnah,  at  the  balcony  window,  was  ex- 
hibiting to  Montellano  strips  of  blue  and  red  cloth. 

"  As  you  have  so  many  relations  with  the  Government,  I  have 
come  to  propose  a  big  deal  together.  .  .  .  See  what  a  good  imi- 
tation this  is,  what  a  good  appearance  it  presents.  .  .  .  This 
other  cloth  looks  like  the  best  goods  turned  out  by  Manchester. 
.  .  .  We  can  send  the  order  by  cable.  .  .  .  Three  words,  and 
we'll  thus  effect  the  rapid  shipment  of  twenty  thousand  yards 
of  blue  cloth  and  five  thousand  of  red,  for  uniforms.  Here's 
the  code:  Gacharnah  Brothers  —  Birmingham  —  Big  Giant, 
bearded,  judaizing." 


THE  HORRORS  OF  PEACE  121 

Then,  to  throw  the  others  off  the  track,  and  raising  his  voice: 

"Have  you  received  the  wine,  Don  Ramon?  It's  the  same 
as  we  took  this  afternoon  at  home.  I  have  the  label  right  here: 
OLD  CHERRY  —  Shipped  expressly  for  Don  Ramon  Montel- 
lano  —  Colombia  —  Bogota." 

And  in  a  low  voice : 

"  There's  another  item  even  better  than  the  cloth.  .  .  ."  And 
almost  in  Montellano's  ear:  "The  armaments,  the  warships. 
I've  got  all  that  ready,  too.  A  very  cheap  vessel,  but  of  good 
appearance.  .  .  .  All  you  need  do  is  send  another  cable:  persi- 
fication,  and  Gacharnah  Brothers  will  send  it  to  us  at  once.  .  .  . 
Then,  in  case  of  war,  there's  the  matter  of  foreign  claims,  in 
which  some  great  deals  can  be  made.  For  now,  during  peace, 
my  dear  Don  Ramon,  it's  awful  hard  to  make  money;  it  takes 
long  and  hard  work;  while  during  war  certain  industries  make 
huge  profits,  business  is  lucrative  and  easy,  masterly  strokes  can 
be  made  and  a  fortune  accumulated  in  no  time.  ..." 

"  You're  as  wise  as  Solomon;  but  I'm  really  not  interested  in 
your  proposals,  my  dear  Gacharnah,"  replied  Montellano.  "  I 
won't  go  into  them,  but  those  gentlemen  over  there,"  he  added, 
with  a  laugh,  pointing  to  the  group  formed  by  Landaburo,  So- 
carraz  and  Polanco,  "  may  be  able  to  furnish  you  the  war  that 
you  need  in  a  short  space  of  time, —  at  once,  in  fact, —  if  they 
are  properly  induced.  Talk  it  over  with  them." 

"  I  know,  I  know,  Sefior  Montellano,"  exploded  the  stranger, 
"  that  for  you,  the  revaluation  party  and  the  integridad  party, 
peace  and  war,  are  all  the  same,  for  you  are  clever  enough  to 
turn  any  party  and  any  man  and  any  situation  to  your  profit." 

"  My  dear  Mata,"  cried  Landaburo,  noticing  the  poet  enter 
the  room  with  his  usual  wearied,  emaciated  expression. 

To-day  the  poet's  eyes  were  moister  than  ever,  his  complex- 
ion unusually  yellow  and  his  gait  less  firm  than  ordinarily. 

"  I  have  come,  Don  Ramon,  to  propose  a  deal  that  will  net 
you  both  honor  and  profit, —  more  honor  than  profit." 

And  noticing  Montellano's  annoyance  and  impatience,  the 
poet  continued  languidly : 

"I'd  like  to  have  you  lend  me  a  certain  sum  in  order  to  bring 
out,  in  the  United  States,  an  edition  of  the  first  three  volumes 
of  my  second  series  of  poems :  Eternal  Orient,  The  Song  of  my 


122  PAX 

Songs  and  Red  Lines.  I  permit  myself  to  trouble  you  in  this 
regard  because  I  have  such  firm  faith  in  your  philanthropic 
nature  and  despite  the  fact  that  you  know  neither  me  nor  my 
verses." 

"  And  how  do  you  expect  me,"  asked  Montellano,  "  to  ad- 
vance you  money  without  knowing  either  you  or  your  verses?  " 

"  For  that  very  reason,"  said  Roberto,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  have  still  another  idea,"  continued  Mata,  unruffled. 
"  That  you  sign  this  petition  to  the  Government." 

And  Montellano  read: 

The  undersigned,  knowing  and  admiring  the  merit  and  the  transcend- 
ent worth  of  the  literary  productions  of  Senor  S.  C.  Mata,  the  most 
inspired  among  the  poets  of  Spanish  America,  who  breaking  the  old 
urns  and  the  classic  fetters  has  winged  aloft  to  the  Blue  and  beheld 
face  to  face  the  Sun  of  the  eternal  Harmony;  a  pure  glory  of  the 
Latin  race;  an  authentic  genius,  who  is  a  hundred  cubits  above  all 
living  writers  and  comparable  only  to  one  or  two  of  the  dead;  the  only 
one  who  has  been  successful  in  gathering  into  a  single  sheaf  the 
"  jessamines  of  the  Orient,  the  fragrance  of  the  North,  of  the  West, 
the  dahlias  and  roses  of  the  South  " ;  the  only  one  to  whom  "  Pindar 
gave  his  famous  rhythms  and  Anacreon  his  wines  and  honies," — 
impelled  by  patriotic  duty,  manifest  to  the  Government  the  necessity  of 
publishing  the  works  of  this  Colombian  Homer,  in  order  thus  to  honor 
letters,  and  place  aloft  the  gold,  the  purple  and  the  sapphire  of  our 
banner. 

Landaburo,  moved,  not  by  patriotic  impulse,  but  by  his  rest- 
less, susceptible  vanity,  stepped  forward  to  be  the  first  to  sign. 

"  My  name  is  known  throughout  America,"  he  said.  "  It 
will  serve  you  as  a  passport." 

There  followed  the  signatures  of  Montellano,  Socarraz  (Chief 
director  of  The  Scorpion)  and  Polanco. 

"  I,  too,  will  sign,"  uttered  a  stentorian,  asthmatic  voice  that 
buzzed  like  a  bumble-bee.  "I,  too,  wish  to  help  out  this  young 
man.  I  must  get  him  to  write  a  few  verses  for  the  inauguration 
of  the  Teaching  Hospital." 

Upon  becoming  aware  of  Gonzalez  Mogollon's  presence,  all 
fled,  and  the  philanthropist,  with  his  crane-like  bald  head,  was 
left  alone  with  the  millionaire. 

"  I  have  brought  you  the  statutes  of  the  Teaching  Hospital, 
as  I  offered  to  do.  We  already  have  a  place  and  I  hope  you'll 
come  to  pay  us  a  visit  some  afternoon.  There  are,  so  far,  eight 


THE  HORRORS  OF  PEACE  123 

inmates.  .  .  .  Just  imagine:  formerly  they  left  the  hospital 
without  knowing  how  to  earn  a  living.  Our  plan  is  that,  when 
they  are  convalescing,  they  may  begin  to  do  something.  In 
order  to  make  the  best  use  of  their  time  during  their  illness,  the 
members  are  teaching  them.  They  study,  particularly  musical 
instruments,  and  hope  to  form  a  band.  We  have  two  chronic 
dyspeptics  that  play  four-hand  arrangements  upon  the  piano, 
eight  hours  per  day.  Another  convalescent  who  suffers  from 
insomnia  makes  use  of  his  time  by  learning  the  clarinet  during 
the  night.  .  .  .  We'll  have  a  fine  band.  ...  Do  you  wish  to 
read  the  list  of  contributors?  " 

Montellano,  without  replying  to  Gonzales  Mogollon's  ques- 
tion, offered  him  construction  materials  for  his  work,  on  the  con- 
dition that  they  would  be  paid  for  at  once,  in  cash.  Very  soon 
they  had  concluded  an  arrangement  by  which  Don  Ramon  real- 
ized a  handsome  profit.  A  very  small  part  of  this  profit  he 
donated  as  charity  to  the  Teaching  Hospital. 

The  rumbling,  monotonous  voice  ceased  to  resound  in  Mon- 
tellano's  office,  for  Gonzalez  had  withdrawn,  but  he  soon  came 
back  from  the  staircase  landing. 

"  My  friend,  I  forgot  to  show  you  the  plans."  And  unrolling 
a  packet  of  papers  upon  the  desk,  he  continued :  "  Here  you 
have  the  lower  floor.  The  great  central  corridor,  with  twenty- 
eight  doors  to  the  right  and  twenty-eight  doors  to  the  left. 
Here  are  the  reception  rooms.  And  here's  the  janitor's  place. 
Opposite,  the  medical  consulting-room." 

Montellano  yawned;  he  was  hungry  and  bored;  but  the  voice 
continued,  inexorable,  monotonous,  like  the  soughing  of  the 
wind,  like  the  beating  of  the  waves,  the  dripping  of  water. 

"  On  the  other  side,  a  waiting  room  for  the  patients,  a  library 
for  the  professors,  and  then  a  library  for  the  inmates." 

"  Very  good,  fine,  friend  Gonzalez;  now  I  know  all  about  it. 
We'll  fix  everything  ship  shape;  I'm  helping  you  out  with  con- 
struction material;  what  more  do  you  wish?  " 

But  the  fatiguing  voice  went  on: 

"  Here,  where  you  see  these  blue  lines,  are  the  refectories, 
until  you  reach  this  green  circle,  which  represents  the  central 
rotunda.  These  colored  dots  stand  for  the  toilets,  near  the  re- 
fectories, as  in  the  Beaujon  hospital.  And  here, —  these  black 
squares, —  are  the  kitchens.  .  .  ." 


124  PAX 

All  at  once  Montellano's  countenance,  which  up  to  this  mo- 
ment had  worn  a  harsh,  dissatisfied  expression,  was  bathed  in  a 
placid  smile;  the  millionaire  advanced  joyously  to  the  door. 
An  odor  of  perfume  invaded  the  room  and  the  swish*  of  silk  was 
heard  upon  the  carpet. 

The  newcomer  was  a  tall,  lively  woman;  full-faced,  with  just 
a  trace  of  down  upon  her  upper  lip.  Her  eyes  were  large  and 
sparkling,  and  she  wore  glasses  from  which  hung  a  thin  golden 
chain.  Upon  her  bosom  rested  a  brooch  holding  a  miniature 
portrait  of  the  great  deceased,  the  international  revolutionist, 
Tubalcain  Cardoso.  The  woman  was  dressed  in  deep  mourn- 
ing, and  the  crape  of  her  mantilla  caused  the  whiteness  of  her 
skin  to  stand  out  by  force  of  contrast. 

"  Only  a  moment,"  said  Dona  Aura  as  she  entered.  "  I  hope 
I  am  not  disturbing  you,  Senor  de  Montellano.  Feminism  has 
made  long  strides  in  the  nineteenth  century,  and  woman  has  the 
privilege  of  presenting  herself  at  any  hour.  Besides,  since  the 
death  of  Tubalcain  " —  and  here  she  heaved  a  very  deep  sigh, — 
"  I  must  shift  for  myself.  Not  without  reason  have  some  of 
my  friends  been  pleased  to  call  me  a  man  of  letters." 

"  Ah,  seiiora,  you  don't  know, —  you  don't  know  how  glad  I 
am  to  see  you  in  this  house.  .  .  .  Unfortunately  you  come  so 
infrequently!  ..." 

"  I  would  come  much  oftener;  but  my  duties  do  not  permit  it. 
The  Independent  Woman  absorbs  the  greater  part  of  my  time. 
There  are  moments  when  I  fear  this  head  will  burst." 

The  floor  trembled  anew  and  the  bumble-bee  buzzing  sounded 
again.  It  was  Gonzalez  returning  hurriedly. 

"  I  forgot,"  he  gasped,  "  to  explain  to  you  where  the  kitchens 
with  their  Kneip  mechanism  would  be  placed.  And  I  didn't 
show  you  the  upper  floor  of  the  structure.  ..." 

He  stopped  suddenly,  bowed  to  Dona  Aura,  and  went  on : 

"  The  upper  story  of  the  .  .  ." 

"No  more!  "  shouted  Montellano.  "  Come  back  this  after- 
noon, to-morrow,  whenever  you  please." 

"  Good,  then.  This  afternoon  I'll  expect  you  at  the  place 
without  fail." 

,,  And  he  left. 

In  the  meantime  Dona  Aura  had  extracted  from  her  mesh- 
bag  some  galley  proofs,  and  was  preparing  to  read  them  aloud. 


THE  HORRORS  OF  PEACE  125 

Montellano,  whose  face  had  flamed  with  anger  because  of  Gon- 
zalez Mogollon's  impertinent  intrusion,  turned  to  his  visitor  with 
a  countenance  that  had  regained  its  gentleness  and  its  smile, 
and  glanced  in  surprise  at  the  strange  slip  of  printed  paper. 

"  This  is  a  biography  of  you,  Senor  de  Montellano,  which  will 
appear  as  an  editorial  in  The  Independent  Woman,  with  the 
picture  that  you  gave  me  a  week  ago.  Just  listen  to  the  begin- 
ning: 

"  The  Independent  Woman  to-day  adorns  its  columns  with  the 
photograph  of  the  distinguished  gentleman,  Doctor  don  Ramon  de 
Montellano  y  Canasto,  an  honor  and  a  distinction  to  the  Republic, — 
an  eminent  personage  in  high  finance,  and  a  noted  patron  of  Colombian 
letters.  The  place  of  his  birth  and  the  date  of  that  felicitous  occasion 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  case:  great  men  have  neither  age  nor 
country.  .  .  ." 

Montellano  breathed  in  delightedly,  together  with  the  waves 
of  perfume  that  came  from  his  visitor,  the  fumes  of  this  incense, 
to  which  he  was  not  accustomed,  and  he  admired  more  and  more 
the  talent  and  the  attractions  of  this  woman  who  was  arousing  in 
him  such  deep  emotion.  She  ceased  her  reading,  looked  into  his 
eyes  as  if  to  surprise  in  them  the  effect  of  her  flattery,  and  she 
divined  the  inner  satisfaction  that  flooded  Montellano's  soul. 
Fearing  that  this  so  pleasant  sensation  might  be  dispelled,  she 
did  not  care  to  continue,  and  said: 

"  This  was  only  an  impromptu,  written  down  in  a  moment  of 
inspiration.  The  Muses  are  very  coy  with  me ;  but  here  are  the 
proofs;  I'll  leave  them  with  you  to  cut  out  or  add  whatever  you 
please.  I  hope  that  you  yourself  will  bring  them  back  to  me, 
so  that  I  may  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  again.  I'll  read 
you  some  chapters  from  my  new  novel,  not  yet  published,  entitled 
The  King's  Musketeer,  or  The  Unmasked  Virgins.  Do  you  like 
the  name?  I'll  show  you  another,  too,  although  I  haven't  yet 
hit  upon  a  denouement.  We'll  invent  one  together,  won't  we? 
It's  called  The  Palm  of  the  Oasis,  or  A  Drama  in  the  Antarctic 
Pole.  .  .  .  But  you're  so  bashful  ..."  she  said,  casting  a 
glance  which  she  commented  upon  with  a  sigh.  .  .  .  "I'll  await 
you  without  fail;  I  am  sure  that  at  your  side  I  will  be  visited 
by  the  inspiration.  ...  I  shall  be  like  the  ivy  protected  by  the 
elm.  What  a  beautiful  name  for  a  novel:  The  Elm  and  the 
Ivy.  .  .  » 


126  PAX 

Montellano  accompanied  Dona  Aura  to  the  foot  of  the  stair- 
case; she  leaned  trustfully  upon  his  arm.  Roberto,  who  at  this 
moment  happened  to  come  in  from  the  street,  noticed  the  con- 
trast presented  by  the  soft  white  hand  of  the  poetess  and  the 
man's  hard,  rough,  darkened  hand,  deformed  by  the  ax,  and 
which  now,  too,  as  Dona  Aura  left,  closely  slowly,  like  a  claw, 
in  an  unconscious  movement  of  possession. 

Montellano  was  about  to  ask  for  lunch  when  he  was  inter- 
cepted by  a  person  wrapped  in  a  greenish  cloak  whence  issued 
a  wax-like  face;  the  sides  of  the  cloak  bulged  with  the  bundles 
that  he  carried  under  his  arms. 

"  Sefior  Montellano,  I  am  Caspar  Sanchez  de  Peiianegra,  the 
inventor  of  several  contrivances  which  will  make  the  fortune  of 
any  one  who  helps  me  to  exploit  them.  .  .  .  But  don't  get  im- 
patient. .  .  .  Permit  me  to  place  these  books  upon  the  table, 
and  these  plans.  .  .  .  Here  is  what  is  called  the  automatic 
heifer;  see:  this  is  the  sucker  .  .  ."  (at  this  point  he  was  seized 
with  a  fit  of  coughing).  "  Pardon  me;  now  I  can  go  on  ...  it 
will  be  very  short,  so  don't  leave.  .  .  .  But  you'll  object  to  me 
that  in  order  to  give  milk  the  cow  needs  the  calf's  sucking.  .  .  . 
Well,  that's  just  where  this  invention  comes  in:  you  hang  this 
little  clapper  to  the  udder,  and  it  tickles  the  cow,  whereupon  the 
cow  kicks,  the  clapper  strikes  the  udder,  the  sucker  sucks  and 
the  milk  spurts  out  in  streams :  you  can  see  how  cheap  and  how 
easy"  (another  fit  of  coughing).  "  Jesus,  Mary!  .  .  . 

"  There,  there,  I'm  over  with  it.  I  have  another  invention, 
too,  beet-root  salt,  but  I  don't  wish  to  detain  you  any  longer  at 
present;  allow  me:  I'll  show  you  the  great  invention,  which  will 
enable  you  to  duplicate  your  present  fortune  .  .  .  let's  get  down 
to  brass  tacks  ...  no  talk  before  actual  results  .  .  .  you  are 
about  to  witness  light  extracted  from  darkness.  .  .  .  You  laugh, 
don't  you  ?  .  .  .  They  laughed  at  Columbus,  too  —  at  Stephen- 
son,  the  inventor  of  steam;  yes,  sefior,  light  from  darkness.  .  .  . 
I'll  take  the  apparatus  out  of  this  valise.  .  .  .  Ah!  Very  sim- 
ple. .  .  .  This  cough  will  kill  me.  .  .  .  I've  been  bothered  with 
it  for  ten  years,  and  only  saltwort  leaves  afford  me  any  relief; 
thank  heaven  it  has  passed.  .  .  .  Now  I  can  go  on.  ...  Here 
you  have  these  black  spectacles.  ...  I  can  go  on,  now.  .  .  . 
Here  you  have  this  pair  of  black  spectacles.  .  .  .  But  don't 
move, —  let  me  put  them  on  for  you.  The  ribbon's  a  little  dirty  ? 


THE  HORRORS  OF  PEACE  127 

.  .  .  No  matter.  ...  So  you  don't  believe  in  my  theory?  .  .  . 
You  think  it's  impossible?  ...  I  have  no  time  for  explana- 
tions; I  can  see  from  your  yawning  that  you  must  lunch  pretty 
soon.  .  .  .  I'll  simply  say  that  I've  discovered  the  origin  of 
light :  the  luminous  energy  is  nothing  but  falling,  vibrating  mat- 
ter. ...  I  have  discovered  A  rays.  In  these  spectacles,  al- 
though you  may  not  understand  it  at  this  moment,  is  found  uni- 
versal radio-activity;  it  is  the  bombardment  of  imponderable 
matter,  yet  ponderable  none  the  less.  All  of  this  is  clearer  than 
the  light  you  are  going  to  behold  if  you  allow  me  to  put  on  these 
spectacles.  .  .  .  Do  you  agree?  .  .  .  Very  well,  and  many 
thanks.  .  .  .  Lower  your  head  just  a  trifle  more.  .  .  .  You're  so 
tall!  .  .  .  Your  boil?  ...  on  your  neck?  .  .  .  Don't  worry. 
.  .  .  I'll  be  very  careful  with  it.  ...  Do  you  see  the  importance 
of  my  invention?  With  a  pair  of  spectacles  like  this  in  your 
pocket  you  can  see  three  leagues  away  on  the  darkest  night,  just 
like  with  the  searchlight  of  a  battleship.  As  rich  as  you  are, 
Seiior  Montellano,  you  haven't  enough  money  to  pay  for  this  in- 
vention of  mine.  Allow  me,  now,  to  shut  these  windows.  .  .  . 
Good!  Can  you  see  anything?  .  .  .  There  goes  that  cough 
again.  ...  A  moment,  please :  there  are  some  gratings  that  pre- 
vent complete  darkness.  .  .  .  What  was  that  that  fell  to  the 
ground?  ...  Ah!  ...  It's  an  inkholder.  .  .  .  Now  we  are 
in  complete  darkness,  in  scientific  obscurity,  the  obscurity  of 
Papin,  or  Turquin  and  of  Melin.  .  .  .  You  don't  see  anything  ? 
.  .  .  Let  me  adjust  the  glasses  better.  .  .  .  But  where  are  you  ? 
.  .  .  There  goes  another  inkholder.  There,  now  I've  found  you; 
let  me  tighten  the  ribbon.  .  .  .  Stars?  ...  Do  you  see  stars? 
Now  I'll  tighen  it  more  and  the  bombardment  of  light  will  be 
complete.  .  .  .  Pardon  me,  I've  put  my  fingers  into  your 
mouth." 

Montellano,  who  had  lent  himself  to  the  experiment  in  hopes 
of  issuing  shares  and  starting  a  corporation,  tore  off  the  glasses 
and  opened  the  window  violently.  A  wave  of  light  inundated 
the  room  and  showed  the  millionaire  in  fury,  staggering  about, 
his  face  dotted  with  black  stains  and  his  tongue  stuck  out  as  far 
as  it  could  reach,  spitting  out  the  astringent  ink  that  filled  his 
mouth. 


128  PAX 


CHAPTER  XII 

A   MONUMENT   TO   THE   LIVING 

"  PERUCHO,  is  Alejandro  up  yet?  "  asked  Roberto  of  a  boy 
with  eyes  as  black  as  two  jet  beads,  while,  followed  by  his  dog, 
he  crossed  the  patio  and  walked  toward  the  interior  of  the  house. 

"  No,  senor,  not  yet,"  answered  the  servant,  who  walked  be- 
fore him  and  opened  the  door  to  the  stable. 

A  wave  of  warm  atmosphere  and  the  odor  of  hay  enveloped 
them.  Roberto,  blinded  by  the  light  of  the  patio,  could  make 
out  nothing.  The  coach  sorrels  were  solemnly  chewing  away  at 
their  morning  feed  in  the  darkness.  As  the  boy  opened  a  cres- 
cent-shaped window  the  light  struck  the  cruppers  of  the  animals 
and  under  their  lustrous  hide  could  be  made  out  the  outlines  of 
their  strong  muscles.  In  another  compartment  was  la  Alondra 
(the  Lark),  a  black  mare  that  Roberto  was  training  for  the 
Sporting-Club's  races.  The  mare  quivered  nervously,  tugged  at 
the  chain,  and  turned  her  head,  upon  which  shone  a  white  star. 

Roberto  stroked  her  neck  and  patted  her  back  affectionately; 
la  Alondra  seemed  to  recognize  him:  her  sparkling  eye,  as  it 
turned,  permitted  a  view  of  its  cornea,  which  was  streaked  a 
light  red. 

In  the  meantime,  Alejandro  had  just  arisen  in  his  room,  which 
was  hung  with  canvases.  He  had  gone  to  bed  late;  all  night 
long  he  had  been  unpacking  the  sculptures  that  he  had  brought 
from  Europe,  installing  them  in  the  salon,  where  he  had  his 
easel,  works  of  art  and  various  souvenirs.  He  opened  one  of 
the  shutters  of  the  window  partly  and  a  flood  of  light  fell  upon 
the  carpet,  and  brought  out  from  the  rear  of  the  room  the  huge 
old  bed  with  the  thick  copper  designs  inlaid  in  the  mahogany 
columns.  Alejandro  crossed  the  room;  he  passed  to  the  painting 
salon  and  lay  down  upon  a  lounge. 

In  this  state  of  lethargy  there  returned  to  him  the  images  of 
other  days,  and  in  his  artist's  imagination,  so  keen  and  power- 
ful that  it  brought  back  scenes  and  faces  in  all  their  detail  and 
colors,  as  he  passed  his  eyes  over  the  sculpture  and  rested  them 
upon  a  low  relief  before  him,  there  came  to  life  again  all  the 
scenes  in  which  he  had  beheld  Bertha. 


A  MONUMENT  TO  THE  LIVING  129 

A  large  window  cast  the  light  upon  the  huge  groups  of  sculp- 
tures, which  assumed  flesh-colored  tints  because  of  the  reflection 
from  the  red  damask  curtains. 

Alejandro  for  a  long  time  lovingly  contemplated  The  Monu- 
ment to  the  Dead,  which  recalled  to  him  the  supreme  instant  of 
his  life  that  he  had  wished  to  retain:  that  first  meeting,  on  a 
Parisian  spring  morning,  in  the  Palais  de  1'Industrie.  As  he 
arrived  there  innocently,  with  no  other  purpose  than  to  pay  the 
ordinary  artist's  visit,  he  little  suspected  that  he  was  approach- 
ing a  decisive  moment  in  his  life,  and  a  place  that  he  would 
never  think  of  thereafter  without  deep  emotion. 

.  .  .  And  he  saw  once  again  the  bustle  of  the  spectators  be- 
fore the  marble  and  the  canvases.  He  recollected,  precisely,  in 
clear  cut  images,  the  series  of  salons  which,  when  the  curtains 
of  the  doors  were  raised,  permitted  a  view  of  rows  of  pictures, 
immense  historical  scenes,  spots  of  blood,  landscapes,  blue 
patches,  recently  varnished  portraits,  shining  amid  the  bright 
gold  of  the  frames,  and  bathed  by  that  vernal  light  which, 
sifted  through  the  glass,  fell  from  the  crystal  roof.  Through 
these  galleries  which  he  had  visited  a  hundred  times  and  which 
he  found  almost  deserted,  since  the  day  for  the  closing  was  fast 
approaching,  he  had  been  wandering  wearily.  .  .  .  He  left  the 
portrait  salon,  before  the  pictures  of  which  the  visitors,  planted 
with  the  knobs  of  their  canes  in  their  mouths,  stood  in  ecstasy, 
uttered  the  names  of  some  of  the  models  and  recognized  the 
singers  of  the  Opera  Comique.  .  .  .  Emma  Calve,  in  the  cos- 
tume of  Carmen.  Under  the  wide  staircase  he  proceeded  to 
the  statuary  salons,  and  there,  once  again,  he  felt  a  strange  fas- 
cination, an  astonishing  seduction,  before  the  sculpture  of  Bar- 
tolome  called  To  the  Dead.  The  work  represented  the  colossal 
facade  of  a  sepulcher,  a  high,  narrow  door  leading  to  the  inte- 
rior of  a  crypt ;  at  each  side,  two  groups  stirring  upon  the  thresh- 
old of  Eternity,  advance,  on  their  knees,  prostrated,  or  on  foot, 
in  accordance  with  their  agony,  their  resignation  or  their  hope. 
...  He  was  standing  thus,  oblivious  to  time,  contemplating  that 
work,  when  of  a  sudden  a  gentle  perfume  caused  him  to  turn 
around;  beside  him  he  heard  a  voice  of  musical  quality  which 
reached  to  the  very  depths  of  his  soul ;  he  beheld  two  women  of 
most  distinguished  appearance  who  were  commenting  upon  the 
sculptures.  One  of  them,  the  younger,  with  her  eyes  distended 


130  PAX 

in  admiration,  was  pointing  to  the  lower  part  of  the  monument, 
—  to  a  deep  niche  in  the  interior  of  the  crypt,  where  lay  a  couple 
with  their  hands  clasped  in  the  peace  of  death,  while  an  angel 
filled  with  tenderness  and  sadness  descended  and  kneeled  at 
their  side,  her  arms  open  like  two  protecting  wings,  veiling  their 
eternal  sleep  in  the  semi-gloom  of  the  sepulcher. 

"Ah!  .  .  .  Yes,"  exclaimed  the  younger,  "this  is  where  the 
artist  desired  to  crystallize  his  thought:  this  angel  is  the  ex- 
planation of  the  drama,  the  symbol  of  immortality  and  hope." 
And  in  these  words  it  seemed  to  Alejandro  that  he  had  discov- 
ered a  profound  feeling.  .  .  .  For  a  long  time  the  women  re- 
mained in  silent  contemplation  of  the  monument,  and  he,  in 
the  meantime,  remained  ecstatically  contemplating  that  woman. 
And  he  felt  that  a  strange  sensation,  a  new  passion,  the  in- 
finity of  love,  was  penetrating  forever  into  his  heart.  There 
was  an  air  of  grandeur  about  her, —  of  majesty,  of  noble  breed- 
ing, an  ideal  pallor,  and  a  pair  of  blue  eyes  in  which  swam  a 
mysterious  anxiety:  the  incurable  homesickness  of  the  exiled. 
Her  voice  sounded  like  sad  music,  stirring  the  soul,  which  was 
moved  as  by  tears. 

There  then  unrolled  before  Alejandro's  eyes  scenes  and 
landscapes  in  which  he  beheld  her  once  again:  the  walk 
.  .  .  that  reception  at  the  French  Embassy,  the  ball  in  the 
Palace,  where  at  last  he  was  able  to  speak  to  her.  .  .  .  Always 
the  same  melancholy,  the  passion  for  the  unattainable,  that 
feeling  which  enabled  them  to  understand  each  other.  .  .  . 
That  night  at  the  ball,  although  they  had  been  conversing 
for  but  a  few  moments,  she  gave  him  to  understand  the  weari- 
ness of  a  soul  that  seeks  rest  and  infinite  happiness  in  vain. 
He  recalled  how  he  had  then  plumbed  the  depths  of  his  own 
soul  and  understood  that  he,  too,  was  an  insatiable  spirit, 
a  seeker  after  happiness,  ill  with  an  indefinable  nostalgia.  .  .  . 

Then,  Jerusalem,  the  Holy  Sepulcher,  the  entrance  to  the 
sanctuary,  and  in  the  gloom,  amid  the  odors  and  the  clouds  of 
incense,  a  sigh.  She  .  .  .  bowed  before  the  Sepulcher,  with 
her  lips  pressed  to  the  sacred  stone.  .  .  .  Afterward?  .  .  . 
After  a  year,  two,  three,  in  which  time  she  had  disappeared 
without  leaving  a  trace,  the  unexpected  meeting  on  board  the 
trans-Atlantic  liner  La  Touraine.  The  Sister  of  Charity: 


A  MONUMENT  TO  THE  LIVING  131 

Bertha  among  them!  .  .  .  She  was  already  Sister  San  Ligorio. 
The  expression  of  mysterious  anguish  had  already  vanished,  and 
instead,  her  blue  pupils  shone  with  an  ineffable  serenity,  a  sad 
gentleness.  .  .  .  Together  again!  .  .  .  That  woman,  whom 
Destiny  had  again  brought  to  him,  was  to  have  a  decisive  in- 
fluence upon  his  existence. 

A  knock  on  the  door  aroused  Alejandro  from  his  day- 
dreams. The  servant  came  in. 

"  Senor  Bellegarde." 

"  Show  him  in." 

Alejandro  hurriedly  arranged  his  clothes;  he  crossed  several 
rooms  and  reached  the  gallery. 

"  Ah !  Friend  Bellegarde,  you  must  excuse  me.  I  got  up 
very  late;  was  busy  all  night  putting  in  order  the  sculptures 
that  I  brought  from  France;  I  had  not  unpacked  them  until 
now,  through  sheer  laziness." 

They  crossed  several  salons  filled  with  antiquities,  in  which 
there  floated  the  mingling  odors  of  Cordovan  leather  and  pun- 
gent camphor,  from  the  old  brocade.  From  the  faded  velvet 
cases  arose  vague  essences  that  evoked  recollections  of  colonial 
loves  and  refinements.  On  the  walls,  side  by  side,  were 
strips  from  the  banners  of  the  Conquest,  soft  gorgets,  wagtails, 
dented  helmets,  iron  gauntlets  and  coats  of  mail,  dulled  by 
the  centuries. 

Clay  idols  with  crossed  legs  smiled  stupidly  out  of  the  shadow 
of  the  corners.  The  gaunt  saints,  painted  by  Vasquez,  grew 
paler  still  amid  the  gold  glints  from  the  furniture  and  the 
garnet  of  the  damask  curtains.  Here  and  there  darted  a  flash 
from  some  lances  and  halberds. 

The  Count's  expert  glance  fell  upon  the  immense  flowers  of 
the  carpet  and  passed  along  the  walls  bedecked  with  paintings 
and  silk  stuffs,  the  inlaid  escritoires,  the  high-back  chairs. 
He  observed  the  harmony  of  the  ebony  and  the  ivory,  the  tor- 
toise-shell and  the  gold,  the  silver  and  the  velvet, —  the  refined 
ensemble  of  rare,  splendid,  dark  objects  that  time  had  passed 
over  with  a  caress. 

A  close  friendship  had  sprung  up  between  Alejandro  and  the 
Count  as  Roberto  .had  foreseen,  because  of  their  artistic  tastes, 
the  sympathy  between  their  hildago-like  characters  and  their 


132  -PAX 

seigniorial  instincts,  their  conception  of  life  according  to  which 
esthetic  preoccupations  held  a  higher  place  than  mercantile 
affairs. 

"  I  received  your  letter  yesterday,  together  with  the  value 
of  your  shares,"  said  Bellegarde,  seating  himself  in  an  ample 
armchair  such  as  may  be  seen  in  a  chancel,  and  resting  his 
hands  upon  the  red  arms.  Then,  adjusting  his  monocle  and 
taking  out  a  telegram  which  he  handed  to  Alejandro,  he  con- 
tinued : 

"  The  canalization  shares,  as  you  see,  have  doubled  in  value 
on  the  Brussels  Exchange.  .  .  .  The  enterprise  has  roused  en- 
thusiasm. ...  I  must  return  to  the  Magdalena  at  once;  two 
steamers  are  coming  up  the  river  for  us,  and  twenty  dredgers. 
.  .  .  You'll  come  along  with  me,  won't  you?  .  .  ."  Then, 
after  a  pause :  "  Yesterday  I  purchased  from  Montellano 
all  the  cultivated  land  on  the  banks  of  the  river;  he  got  ahead 
of  us,  but  we  simply  had  to  acquire  those  lands,  which  the 
Company  must  own  for  the  purpose  of  colonization.  I  also 
made  an  arrangement  that  I  fear  will  displease  you:  I  gave 
Socarraz  a  position  in  the  work." 

Alejandro  made  a  gesture  of  annoyance  and  astonishment. 
Bellegarde  went  on: 

"  At  bottom  I'm  not  opposed  to  giving  work  and  money  to 
anybody  who  is  willing  to  do  his  share.  Perhaps  in  this  way 
we  may  steer  many  clear  of  the  wrong  road  and  the  revolu- 
tionary ideas  through  which  they  seek  prosperity  and  for- 
tune by  means  of  an  overturn.  We  must,  even  at  the  cost 
of  many  sacrifices  and  with  whatever  means  we  have  at  our 
disposal,  oppose  war,  which  is  the  only  serious  enemy  of  the 
enterprise." 

And  after  another  pause,  he  continued: 

"  I  was  to  see  that  painting  of  the  Magdalen  that  they  at- 
tribute to  Guido;  I'm  rather  inclined  to  believe  that  it's  the 
work  of  the  Spanish  painter,  •  Carrefio.  This  picture  has  a 
remarkable  resemblance  to  another  Magdalen  by  the  same 
artist,  which  I  saw  at  the  Museum  of  St.  Petersburg." 

He  arose  and  walked  to  another  salon,  in  which  Alejandro 
had  his  studio. 

"  How's  the  portrait  of  President  Borja  getting  along?  " 

In  the  center  of  the  salon  was  the  easel,  upon  which  rested 


A  MONUMENT  TO  THE  LIVING  133 

a  canvas  of  generous  dimensions,  scarcely  touched;  opposite 
was  a  suit  of  armor,  of  burnished  steel. 

"  You  know  the  theme,"  said  Alejandro.  "  It's  the  moment 
in  which  the  Archbishop  Arias  de  Ugarte  hands  over  to  Presi- 
dent Borja  the  data  and  the  plans  of  amelioration  that  he  has 
gathered  on  his  pastoral  visit." 

"  Magnificent !  I  can  just  imagine  how  well  you'll  treat 
the  contrast  between  the  cloth  of  the  episcopal  vestments  and 
the  glint  from  the  burnished  steel;  the  ascetic  pallor  of  the 
prelate  and  the  fiery,  proud  traits  of  his  warrior  predecessor. 
But,  wouldn't  it  be  better  to  complete  those  sketches  of  yours 
that  I  christened  PAX?  "  And  he  turned  to  one  of  the  num- 
erous sketches  that  hung  on  the  walls.  "  Here's  the  first 
sketch,"  he  said,  pointing  to  two  small  canvases.  "  There  are 
many  happy  details  and  light  effects." 

Near  the  two  small  canvases  was  a  slightly  larger  one, 
representing  an  old  country  house,  and  in  the  fore  ground,  a 
group  of  which  only  the  heads  were  barely  designed. 

"  This  is  done  con  amore,"  observed  Bellegarde,  turning  an 
inquiring  glance  upon  Alejandro. 

"  I  tried  to  copy,"  answered  the  latter,  "  an  old  family  pho- 
tograph. It's  the  house  at  Cebaderos  which  I  sold  to  Montel- 
lano."  And  he  wrinkled  his  forehead  in  token  of  the  unpleas- 
ant thoughts  his  statement  had  summoned.  "  I  tried  to  preserve 
the  old  country  house  of  the  Borjas'  on  the  canvas,  at  least. 
.  .  .  Can't  you  see?  Here  are  the  three:  aunt  Teresa,  aunt 
Ana,  my  father.  ..." 

The  Count  withdrew  and  Alejandro  began  to  paint. 

Shortly  afterward,  Roberto  appeared,  followed  closely  by 
Perucho,  who  carried  a  stone  slab. 

"  I  have  a  surprise  for  you;  a  stupendous  discovery." 

Alejandro  did  not  even  turn  to  look  at  him,  but  sat  back 
to  note  the  effect  of  a  brush  stroke. 

"Did  you  meet  Bellegarde?  He  just  left."  And  leaning 
over  toward  the  palette:  "  He  showed  me  a  cablegram  which 
says  that  the  shares  have  doubled  in  value." 

Roberto  stopped  before  the  canvas,  and  after  observing  it 
a  moment,  said: 

"  It's  getting  along  finely,  but  I  don't  like  those  touches. 
The  armor,  although  it  presents  very  elegant  curves,  affords 


134  PAX 

you  no  opportunity  for  revealing  the  wealth  of  your  palette, 
your  knowledge  of  color,  which  you  manage  so  skilfully.  In- 
stead of  this  montonous  armor,  so  cold  and  uniform,  I  would 
attire  our  ancestor  Borja  in  the  trappings  which  the  master 
Velazquez  put  on  the  Marquis  de  Spinola  in  his  canvas  of 
the  Lances.  Remember?  .  .  .  It's  such  a  noble,  brilliant,  har- 
monious piece  of  work.  Black  armor  dotted  with  gold,  a  lace 
collar,  a  pink  sash,  gauntlets,  a  black  hat  with  a  white  plume. 
.  .  .  But,  just  look  at  my  surprise:  the  stone  which  President 
Borja  placed  on  the  bridge  of  San  Francisco.  I  found  it  yes- 
terday among  a  collection  of  antiquities  which  has  just  been 
put  on  sale." 

Alejandro  laid  his  brushes  aside  and  drew  near  to  examine 
the  stone. 

"  You're  fortune's  pampered  child,"  he  exclaimed.  "  I've 
been  looking  for  this  ten  years.  And  where  is  this  sale? 
We  must  go  there  at  once." 

Alejandro  placed  the  stone  upon  a  table,  brought  some 
water,  and  washed  it  so  that  he  might  reconstruct,  letter  by 
letter,  the  inscription  that  had  been  corroded  by  the  centuries. 
Then  he  took  Roberto  by  the  arm  and  gently  pushing  him  to- 
ward the  museum-salon,  he  said: 

"  Come  along.     Now  let  me  show  you  my  surprise." 

They  both  paused  before  the  statues;  Roberto  drew  near, 
while  Alejandro,  leaning  against  the  door  jamb,  gave  himself 
up  anew  to  his  recollections  and  to  his  sorrows. 

"  So  this  is  your  great  surprise!  "  exclaimed  Roberto.  "  I 
saw  fragments  of  this  group  in  Paris;  the  simplicity  of  the 
style  and  the  depth  of  the  sentiment  revealed  a  great  artist, 
and  how  anxious  I  was  to  see  the  work  completed!  "  And  he 
returned  to  grasp  the  whole,  to  penetrate  the  artist's  meaning, 
the  complete  thought  of  the  sculptor. 

"Look,  Roberto;  what  moves  me  most  is  this  central  group: 
these  two  figures,  the  couple  entering  the  sepulcher.  Standing 
out  against  the  mysterious  darkness,  the  young  woman  leans 
her  hands  against  the  shoulder  of  her  companion  as  if  to  give 
him  courage.  Observe  this  movement  of  the  arm,  this  atti- 
tude so  full  of  tenderness  and  resignation  which  imparts  to 
the  couple  on  their  entrance  into  eternity  a  sad,  moving 
solemnity," 


A  MONUMENT  TO  THE  LIVING  135 

He  returned  to  his  easel  and  continued  painting.  He  looked 
at  his  model  attentively,  that  he  might  wrest  from  the  light 
its  secrets  and  its  wonders.  Soon  he  paused  to  study  an 
unforeseen  effect. 

"Just  come  over  here;  the  sun,  too,  wished  to  bring  me  a 
surprise;  if  I  were  to  painf  this,  they'd  say  I  had  falsified  na- 
ture, that  I  had  made  light  lie." 

A  bright  sunbeam,  breaking  against  the  prism  of  a  chandelier, 
had  stained  the  breastplate  of  the  armor  as  with  a  spot  of 
blood. 

"  Which  will  prove  to  the  critics,"  exclaimed  Roberto,  ad- 
miring this  strange  light  effect,  "that  reality  surpasses  fiction; 
that  the  practical  life  is  really  the  life  of  the  dreamers  and 
poets.  .  .  \  But  I've  found  another  surprise:  the  fiscal  Avila, 
who  came  from  Guatemala  to  the  Audience  of  Santa  Fe." 

The  iridescent  light  had  vanished;  Alejandro  continued  to 
study  the  reflections  from  the  steel  and  tried  the  colors  on  his 
palette.  He  seemed  to  be  conversing  with  the  suit  of  armor. 

"  This  is  very  important  to  me,"  said  Roberto.  "  For  doubt- 
less, as  may  be  seen  from  the  energy  of  the  expression,  the  life 
in  the  eyes,  this  picture  was  made  from  the  living  original  and 
not  from  the  dead,  as  appears  easily  from  the  one  I  have  at 
home." 

He  bent  over  to  read  the  inscription  at  the  foot  of  the  paint- 
ing: 

THE  MOST  EXCELLENT  SENOR  DON  MELCHOR  DE  AVILA 
Y  CASTILLO,  CABALLERO.  GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  ROYAL 
AUDIENCIA  OF  SANTA  FE  DE  BOGOTA,  NEW  KINGDOM 
OF  GRANADA,  CAME  TO  THIS  ROYAL  AUDIENCIA  FROM 
GUATEMALA  IN  1702  AND  WAS  ITS  PRESIDENT. 

"  This  ancestor  of  yours  resembles  you  much  more  closely 
than  the  one  you  have  at  home,"  replied  Alejandro,  turning 
his  head.  "  He  has  your  eyes,  and  the  same  bulging  forehead 
as  the  Avilas." 

"That's  how  I  imagined  Don  Melchor  when  I  wrote  his 
biography  for  the  Santa  Fe  Illustration." 

"  Permit  me  to  correct  you !  .  .  .  When  you  wrote  the  first 
part,  for  the  second  still  remains  to  be  seen.  Everybody  asks 


136  PAX 

me  for  the  continuation  of  your  historical  articles,  and  the  sec- 
ond part  of  the  famous  biography." 

"  Second  parts  were  never  good;  don't  ask  me  to  write  any 
more,  for  it  isn't  worth  the  trouble." 

"  I  deny  that!  What  a  fresh,  living  picture  you  drew  of 
those  times  of  love  and  blood,  in  which  people  really  loved  and 
hated  each  other!  How  well  you  evoked  those  conquistadores, 
who  were  half  saint  and  half  bandit,  and  those  brave,  romantic 
judges;  and  as  you  progressed  with  your  pictures  of  barricades 
in  the  streets  and  serenades  at  the  foot  of  the  window-gratings, 
you  were  doing  a  genuinely  modern  study,  of  deep  yet  pleasant 
analysis!  ..." 

"Look!"  interrupted  Roberto,  "if  it  should  ever  occur  to 
you  to  write  my  biography,  I'll  be  satisfied  to  have  you  write 
only  the  first  part." 

Alejandro  laid  his  palette  upon  the  floor,  put  aside  the 
brushes  and  arising  precipitously,  stopped  before  Roberto  and 
placed  his  hands  upon  his  friend's  shoulders. 

"Agreed!"  he  exclaimed,  revealing  his  animation  in  the 
glow  of  his  pupils,  the  color  of  his  cheeks  and  the  timbre  of  his 
voice.  "  I  will  be  your  biographer,  and  I  will  write  as  follows: 
'  He  was  a  man  of  great  genius,  of  delicate  and  artistic  feel- 
ings, of  vast  culture;  but  he  lacked  energy,  will-power,  the 
ability  to  follow  up  things;  he  had  initiative,  but  he  lacked 
constancy;  he  enjoyed  life,  but  had  no  ambition;  he  studied 
more  than  enough  to  graduate,  yet  never  got  his  doctor's  de- 
gree; he  was  a  valiant  soldier,  and  with  his  advice  helped 
to  win  victory,  yet  he  never  advanced  higher  than  a  mummery 
captain;  he  had  a  clear  conception  of  things;  he  made  the 
best  possible  adviser,  but  never  profited  by  his  own  learn- 
ing. .  .  .'  Now  don't  interrupt  me.  .  .  .  *  He  began  a  trans- 
lation of  Faust,  and  interpreted  several  scenes  in  a  masterly 
fashion,  yet  never  could  get  himself  to  complete  an  act;  he 
left  unfinished  historical  studies  for  which  he  had  gathered 
full  data  at  the  cost  of  much  labor.  He  wrote  short  biographies 
as  well  as  sonnets  that  Nunez  de  Arce  would  be  proud  to 
sign  ...  if  Nunez  would  sign  sonnets  lacking  their  final 
tercets.' ': 

"  Bravo!     You're  grooming  yourself  for  the  Senate." 

"Allow  me  to  finish!     The  best  is  yet  to  come!     You've 


A  MONUMENT  TO  THE  LIVING  137 

gone  everywhere  scattering  your  ideas  and  your  inspirations  and 
your  discoveries,  which  others  have  taken  advantage  of.  You've 
won  battles  for  Ronderos  and  executed  profitable  transactions 
for  Montellano,  without  yourself  becoming  either  a  general  or  a 
millionaire." 

"  Oui,  ma  vie  ce  jut  d'etre  celui  qui  souffle,  et  qu'on  oublie." 

"Ah!  If  you're  starting  those  quotations  from  Cyrano  de 
Bergerac  again,  we'll  never  get  through.  I've  already  told  you 
that  the  best  is  yet  to  come." 

He  grasped  Roberto's  lapel  tightly,  with  his  habit  of  con- 
vincing, hypnotizing,  dominating  by  violent  affection,  and  his 
blue  eyes  lit  up  with  flame. 

"  You  simply  must  finish  that  translation  of  Faust,  your 
colonial  studies,  your  sonnets  and  that  idyll  that  you've  be- 
gun." 

And  now  he  pressed  his  friend's  arm.  "Don't  deny  it; 
it's  an  idyll;  continue  with  it,  and  none  of  your  analyzing  and 
vacillating.  Make  up  your  mind  once  and  for  all,  and  let 
me  be  your  best  man  at  your  wedding  with  Dolores  Montel- 
lano." 

"  I,  marry?  .  .  .  It's  well,  when  God  sends  us  a  chronic 
aliment,  to  endure  it  with  resignation  and  patience.  .  .  .  But 
to  go  looking  for  it?  " 

"  Enough  of  your  jests.  Give  up  this  habit  of  taking 
nothing  seriously." 

"  I  forget  what  serious  author  wrote  that  habits  must  be 
most  considerately  treated,  especially  if  they  are  bad  habits." 

"  You  must  settle  down,  raise  a  family,  and  know  the  joy  of 
a  home.  .  .  .  Less  fancies,  less  bohemianism  .  .  .  and  more 
positive,  solid  happiness.  .  .  .  Don't  interrupt  me.  ...  I  know 
that  you're  going  to  tell  me  that  I  have  no  right  to  preach, 
that  I  myself  have  been  unable  to  settle  down;  but  that's  just 
why  I  can  serve  as  teacher  here.  A  master  in  hidden  sadness, 
in  life's  nullity,  a  master  of  loneliness." 

"  Ah!  Yes.  You  are  very,  very  fond  of  loneliness  in  good 
company." 

"  You  need  more  stability,  an  inner  life." 

"  Inner?  .  .  .  Yes,  I  understand;  what  you  want  me  to 
do  is  to  make  a  Teniers  interior;  to  immortalize  you,  brush 
in  hand,  by  affording  you  an  opportunity  to  copy  my  joyous 


138  PAX 

scene:  six  drooling  kids,  a  chubby-cheeked  wife,  a  cart  loaded 
with  hay,  the  fireplace,  ten  casks  of  beer,  and  plenty  of  quiet 
with  a  pile  of  Holland  cheese." 

"  Frankly,"  interrupted  Alejandro  in  a  serious  tone,  "  you 
have  undertaken  a  kind  of  sport  which  I  never  taught  you, 
despite  my  bad  reputation.  For  you  have  awakened  in  Dolores 
certain  refinements,  literary  tastes,  and  the  desire  to  cultivate 
her  mind,  to  learn  incessantly.  .  .  .  You  know  it, —  those  eight 
hours  of  daily  study  are  all  through  you  and  for  you;  this  un- 
wearying effort,  this  devotion  to  study,  the  anticipation  of 
your  desires,  are  proof  of  an  affection  which,  in  all  frankness, 
you  don't  deserve." 

"  But  have  you  seen  those  hands, —  those  short  and  wide 
hands  that  recall  the  rapacious  hands  of  Montellano?  Have 
you  seen  her  hair?  " 

"  Magnificent  black  tresses." 

"There,  now!  You  haven't  learned  how  to  see;  you're  like 
that  artist  who  said,  '  To-day  I  look,  to-morrow  I'll  see.'  But 
I  have  observed,  looked  and  seen.  Those  magnificent  black 
tresses  in  the  full  light  show  the  cinnamon  glints  of  monkey 
fur.  With  all  her  father's  millions  she  still  bears  the  in- 
eradicable mark  of  the  tropical  suns,  of  the  open-air  life,  of 
the  inclement  weather,  of  the  wild  life  among  mountains  and 
pampas.  With  all  these  handicaps  of  ancestry  will  she  ever 
learn  the  usefulness  of  the  useless?  When  will  she  be  con- 
vinced that  the  purpose  of  life  is  art,  as  Bellegarde  puts  it? 
And  even  should  she  learn  all  this,  her  father's  millions  are 
a  heap  of  money;  they'd  weigh  me  down  as  if  they  were 
coined  upon  my  shoulders;  I'd  feel  their  molten  metal  pouring 
down  my  throat." 

"  Well,  then,  Landaburo  gave  the  key  to  your  happiness 
the  other  night.  He's  preparing  a  bill  for  the  next  legislature, 
carrying  his  socialistic  theories  into  practice.  '  Reduction  of 
capital;  abolition  of  inheritances.'  .  .  .  That'll  make  your 
Lola  a  poor  girl,  which  is  what  you  seem  to  wish.  ...  Or 
is  it  aristocratic  desires  you're  cherishing;  a  matter  of  pedi- 
gree, parchments  and  letters  patent  of  nobility?  "...  And 
with  a  loud  laugh,  bowing  with  mock  ceremony,  he  added: 
"  The  Count  del  Risco  y  de  Cahahalso,  lord  of  las  Navas  y 
Villafranca,  tes  autres  titres  don  Juan.  ,  .  ,  How  well  those 


A  MONUMENT  TO  THE  LIVING  139 

pictures  of  Hernani  would  portray  you."  And  pointing  in 
theatrical  manner  to  one  of  the  canvases  upon  the  wall :  "  Celui 
des  Silva  jut  Fame.  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Why,  see  here:  you 
know  very  well  that  my  rights  to  the  dukeship  of  Gandia  and 
to  the  marquisate  of  Lombay  are  most  genuine.  Well,  I  yield, 
convey,  deliver  and  transfer  them  to  Dolores.  .  .  .  Besides,  you 
forget  that  she  is  a  marquess  of  intelligence  and  charm,  duch- 
ess of  beauty,  princess  of  love." 

"  That  last  title  is  enough  for  me.  Parchments,  nobiliary 
titles,  purity  of  ancestry,  deeds  of  legitimacy,  Christianity  and 
nobility, —  I  require  all  these  absolutely,  but  not  from  Dolores. 
I  ask  these  from  Montellano's  millions;  I  don't  care  to  contract 
a  misalliance  with  them." 

"  The  origin  of  that  wealth?  It  lies  in  those  very  cinnamon 
features  that  so  horrify  you.  You  have  seen  in  them  a  stigma; 
to  me  they  are  a  wreath,  not  surely  the  wreath  of  laurel  nor 
the  wreath  of  oak,  but  the  wreath  of  gold  that  is  bestowed 
upon  intelligent  labor.  I  aspired  to  intertwine  your  some- 
what withered  count's  wreath  with  this  other  one.  I  wished 
to  infuse  new  blood  into  our  race  and  to  return  to  the  Avilas 
their  ambition,  their  audacity,  their  energy;  I  wished  to  erase 
half  of  our  motto,  thus  improving  it, —  to  take  away  the  word 
grief  and  leave  only  glory.  .  .  .  Marry  for  money, —  that's 
bad!  But  to  throw  over  a  charming  maiden  who's  in  love 
with  you  just  because  she's  rich, —  that's  worse!  As  for  Mon- 
tellano,  the  ocean  wouldn't  be  wide  enough  to  separate  him 
from  you.  I  haven't  told  you  the  latest  trick  he  played  on 
me,  nor  shall  I  tell  you.  ...  In  short,  I  don't  insist.  .  .  . 
What's  certain,  if  you  don't  intend  to  marry  Dolores,  is  that 
you  should  flee  the  house, —  keep  away.  Don't  make  mat- 
ters worse.  Dolores  has  been  soft  clay  that  you've  modelled 
with  your  artist's  hands;  you  have  instilled  in  her  your  refined 
tastes,  you've  given  her  the  desire  to  learn,  to  distinguish  her- 
self; you  have  opened  infinite  horizons  to  her  mind,  you  have 
given  her  wings,  and  now  that  you  see  her  high  up  among  her 
ideals,  are  you  going  to  let  her  fall  and  smash  to  bits  against 
her  previous  commonplace  existence?  Have  you  filled  her 
soul  with  delicacy  and  illusions  only  to  give  yourself  the  pleas- 
ure of  having  her  feel  a  void  when  you've  gone,  of  having  her 
weep,  of  having  her  die  for  love  of  you?  Have  you  lifted  her 


HO  PAX 

to  the  heights  only  to  let  her  fall  and  be  destroyed  like  Simon 
the  Magus?  .  .  .  The  deuce!  " 

"  Be  calm,  Faust;  you're  exaggerating  everything  and  making 
a  tragedy  of  it.  You  know  how  my  nerves  are  on  edge  from  that 
wicked  yellow  that  they've  smeared  all  over  my  house;  you 
know  how  I  suffer  from  the  sight  of  this  swarm  of  money- 
grubbers,  this  den  of  vileness.  But  Montellano,  he's  such  a 
joke  to  me!  .  .  .  Flee  this  place,  leave  it  forever,  plan  flight? 
.  .  .  No,  don't  ask  of  my  will  any  more  than  you  know  it  can 
perform;  since  I  can't  measure,  or  calculate,  or  foresee  conse- 
quences, let  me  continue  as  at  present;  let  me  see  some  tithe  of 
nobility  where  so  much  strikes  me  as  being  ridiculous;  let  me 
inhale  the  fragrance  of  this  new  rose  in  the  former  home  of 
my  family;  let  me  watch  this  chrysalis  be  transformed  into  a 
butterfly." 

"  You  paint  yourself  blacker  than  you  are.  You  can't  be  so 
callous  to  evil,  you  can't  enjoy  the  writhings  of  your  victim; 
it  would  be  a  refinement  of  cruelty  that  would  clash  with  your 
other  refinements.  Fortunately,  what  is  at  the  bottom  of  your 
repugnance  is  your  former  affection  of  Ines;  too  bad  that 
you  think  of  her  only  when  you  feel  in  danger  of  losing  her. 
You're  too  sure  of  the  retreat.  .  .  .  Take  care!  Bellegarde 
is  teaching  her  how  to  care,  for  he  knows  how  to  love.  He 
may  cut  off  your  retreat." 

"Ines?"  said  Roberto.  "Why,  she's  a  sphinx,  and  you 
know  my  aversion  for  hieroglyphics  .  .  .  even  for  the  most 
beautiful  of  them.  ...  So  prudent,  so  cold,  and  I  need  to  be 
loved  with  passion,  with  furore.  .  .  .  Even  her  smile  is  silent." 

"  Happy  he  "who  shall  decipher  the  enigma  of  that  sphinx, 
—  he  who  shall  interpret  these  hieroglyphics,  he  who  makes 
that  silence  speak.  .  .  .  Unhappily,  you  will  not  be  he." 

Roberto  had  begun  to  fiddle  with  the  various  objects  upon 
one  of  the  tables;  he  picked  them  up,  changed  their  places;  then 
he  drew  closer  to  Alejandro,  with  a  sinister  air. 

"  Once  for  all,  do  you  really  wish  to  know  why  I  don't  take 
the  definitive,  irrevocable  step?  .  .  .  It's  because  I've  lost 
faith  in  the  outcome.  ...  I'm  afraid  .  .  .  afraid  of  life.  It's 
taught  me  so  many  things, —  me  and  mine.  ...  I  feel  certain 
that  everything  that  comes  into  my  hands, —  prestige,  for- 
tune, wealth, —  will  decline,  evaporate."  (He  had  become 


HORTICULTURE  141 

grave,  and  was  speaking  in  a  low  voice.)  "Knowing  me, 
knowing  that  I  am  useless  for  struggle,  that  I  shall  allow  my- 
self to  be  conquered  by  fate,  do  you  believe  it  would  be  loyal  of 
me,  or  generous,  or  gentlemanly,  to  make  my  companion  share 
my  unhappy  lot?  I  am  man  enough  to  receive  fortune's  blows 
with  a  smile,  but  it  would  kill  me  not  to  be  able  to  shield  Dolores 
or  Ines  from  them." 

Alejandro  took  his  friend  by  the  arm  and  placed  him  anew 
before  the  statues,  as,  with  a  voice  in  which  his  emotion  clearly 
vibrated,  he  exclaimed: 

"  To  die  without  having  loved  is  to  die  without  having  lived. 
This  monument  is  not  only  to  the  dead;  it  is  a  monument,  a 
lesson,  to  the  living.  The  sculptor  tried  to  concentrate  at- 
tention upon  this  pair  in  the  middle,  advancing  full  of  vigor 
and  determination  toward  eternity.  Look  at  that  marriage  which 
scares  you:  these  two  beings  who  found  themselves  amid  the 
vastness  of  existence,  multiplied  their  joys  a  hundredfold  and 
lightened  their  burdens  by  their  life  together.  She  is  part  of 
her  husband's  soul,  his  bravery,  and  he  summons  his  strength 
to  protect  his  companion,  seeking  in  love  the  secret  and  the 
source  of  his  energies.  Leaning  upon  each  other  they  enter  the 
sepulcher  with  firm  step,  just  as  they  have  walked  through  life, 
hand  in  hand,  smiling  and  happy.  What  you  see  here  is  truth, 
power,  the  answer  to  your  discouragement." 

Then,  with  a  stifled  voice,  as  if  speaking  to  himself,  he  con- 
tinued: "All  the  rest  is  a  lie,  an  irreparable  mistake."  He 
sank  into  a  chair  and  leaned  his  head  against  his  hands.  "  De- 
spair! " 


CHAPTER  XIII 

HORTICULTURE 

"  You  promised  the  Sisters  that  you  would  visit  them  to- 
day." 

"  Lets  go,  then,  if  you  insist." 

Roberto  was  accustomed  to  his  friend's  attacks  of  spleen, 
of  ill  humor,  which  Alejandro  called  his  black  hours.  But 
these  sudden  impulses,  which  revealed  griefs  hidden  deep  in 


142  PAX 

the  recesses  of  Alejandro's  soul,  filled  Roberto  with  pained  sur- 
prise. Knowing  that  the  secret  must  be  impenetrable,  he  held 
aloof,  silent.  After  a  long  pause,  Roberto,  wishing  to  rouse 
his  friend  from  his  gloomy  and  bitter  thoughts,  had  proposed 
a  little  trip,  anything  to  get  out  of  the  rut  and  bestir  himself, — 
a  visit  to  the  recently  installed  establishment. 

After  passing  through  narrow  lanes,  climbing  rough  passes 
and  rocky  places,  skirting  along  the  river,  crossing  plowed  land 
and  little  squares,  they  saw  before  them  the  white  belfry  be- 
hind a  clump  of  trees. 

"Do  you  see  it?  ...  We  have  arrived  at  last.  Did  that 
hill  tire  you?  You're  getting  very  stout." 

"  It's  not  I  that's  tired.  It's  you,"  observed  Alejandro  as 
he  noticed  Roberto  pale  and  panting. 

They  had  come  to  a  precipice  at  the  bottom  of  which  the 
river  flowed,  and  they  turned  down  a  pass;  soon  they  had 
reached  a  place  that  seemed  to  belong  to  another  district  and  to 
another  century:  the  solitary  square,  the  shining  bell-tower, 
the  whitened  wall-fences,  over  which  peered  and  swayed  the 
orchard  foliage. 

"How  out  of  harmony  all  your  correctness  is!  "  commented 
Roberto,  stopping  and  barring  Alejandro's  way.  "  How  all 
this  West  End  chicness  of  yours  clashes  with  the  surroundings, 
—  your  Fuchs  shoes,  this  Greek  medallion  on  your  pendant, 
this  Poole  suit,  this  shining  hat, —  in  this  quite  little  square 
that's  as  austere  as  a  patio  of  the  Carthusian  monastery.  .  .  . 
How  ill  they  harmonize  with  this  silence,  this  solitude,  this  re- 
mote corner  that  speaks  of  forgetfulness,  of  poverty,  of  with- 
drawal and  penitence!  .  .  ." 

Alejandro  made  no  immediate  reply  to  the  jesting  comment, 
as  he  was  absorbed  in  the  tranquillity  that  surrounded  him. 

"  Yes,  indeed;  this  seems  to  bathe  my  soul." 

They  crossed  the  plazuela,  knocked  timidly  at  a  door  which 
was  situated  at  the  foot  of  the  bell-tower.  At  this  juncture 
the  figure  of  Doctor  Miranda  appeared  on  the  square;  his  long 
black  cape  stood  out  against  the  shining  whiteness  of  the 
wall. 

"Hello,  Roberto!  You  here?"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  cer- 
tain surprise.  "And  you,  Alejandro?  .  .  .  You?" 

He  knocked  familiarly  at  the  door;  the  face  of  the  Sister 


HORTICULTURE  143 

door-keeper  appeared  for  a  moment,  then  disappeared  as  she 
went  to  lift  the  latch.  They  entered.  The  outer  passageway 
was  dark,  and  there  was  a  damp  odor,  which  mingled  with  the 
mystic  perfume  of  a  bunch  of  flowers  that  adorned  the  image 
of  the  Virgin,  before  which  burned  the  languid  flame  of  a 
lamp.  At  the  end  of  the  passageway  shone  a  square  patio  with 
a  white  arcade,  half  in  light  and  half  in  the  shade. 

They  were  greeted  by  Mother  Paulina,  a  woman  of  indefi- 
nite age,  but  of  virginal  freshness,  with  an  eternal  smile  be- 
neath her  linen  hood.  She  smiled  familiarly  at  Doctor  Mi- 
randa, then  cast  an  inquiring  glance  at  the  visitors. 

"  Mother,"  spoke  Alejandro,  "  don't  you  recall  that  we  were 
traveling  companions?  " 

The  nun's  expression  changed. 

"  Ah !  .  .  .  Yes,  yes,  it's  Monsieur  Alejandro.  ...  I  re- 
member. Do  you  wish  to  visit  our  establishment?  "  asked 
the  nun  with  a  French  accent,  lingering  upon  the  final  syllables. 
"  The  girls  aren't  working  now.  .  .  .  It's  almost  eleven  o'clock." 

In  the  center  of  the  patio,  in  double  file,  with  their  backs 
toward  the  visitors,  stood  the  little  girls;  now  and  then  they 
would  turn  their  restless  heads  in  the  direction  of  the  new- 
comers, and  whisper  with  the  hum  of  innocence  and  happiness. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  you  didn't  find  them  at  work  at  their 
distaffs.  They're  on  their  way  to  the  refectory  now;  but  they'll 
soon  return." 

The  bell  sounded.  The  rows  of  children  marched  for- 
ward, crossing  the  patio.  Alejandro  noticed  that,  as  they 
passed  from  the  shadow  to  the  sunlight  the  little  black  heads 
cast  blue  reflections,  while  the  blond  tresses  shone  with  a  halo- 
like  glow. 

All  was  silent.  The  visitors,  preceded  by  the  mother,  en- 
tered the  printing-shop,  a  long,  dark  room  the  roof  of  which  was 
covered  with  paper  strips  of  various  colors;  before  the  cases 
and  the  presses  they  saw  several  robust,  neat  young  girls  wear- 
ing large  aprons  of  coarse  fiber.  The  mother  had  them  execute 
certain  tasks,  explaining  that  the  installation  of  the  printery 
had  been  due  to  the  efforts  of  Gonzalez  Mogollon,  who  came 
to  visit  them  every  day  and  fill  them  with  enthusiasm.  The 
bell  sounded  again;  out  came  the  girls,  filling  the  patio  and 
the  galleries  with  fresh  childish  laughter;  the  colors  of  their 


144  PAX 

dresses,  the  silk  of  their  hair  and  the  pink  of  their  cheeks 
shone  in  the  sun;  and  amid  a  whir  as  of  bees  returning  to 
their  hive  they  ran  to  their  posts  under  the  arcade  and  began 
the  tric-trac  of  the  looms,  the  humming  of  their  distaffs.  The 
row  of  distaffs,  turned  by  rhythmic  movements  of  the  chil- 
dren's feet,  revolve  as  one  and  the  locks  of  wool  grow  thinner 
and  longer,  into  threads  that  the  agile  little  fingers  twine 
around  amid  the  rhythmic  noises;  there  is  a  confusion  of  white- 
ness,—  the  brightness  of  the  arcade,  the  soft  tones  of  the  wool, 
the  immaculate  cloths  of  the  loom,  the  embroidery  frames 
and  the  snow-white  of  the  hoods  that  float,  flutter,  and  go 
hither  and  thither  amid  this  hum  of  labor,  youth  and  happi- 
ness. 

"  Look,  Faust,"  whispered  Roberto,  while  the  mother  left 
them  for  a  moment  to  examine  the  design  on  one  of  the  looms. 
"  Look  at  these  distaffs,  these  Marguerites.  .  .  .  Do  you  re- 
member? .  .  .  Faust's  dream  as  given  by  Irving  at  the  Ly- 
ceum! " 

Alejandro  frowned  slightly  and  dismissed  the  irreverent  no- 
tion. 

"  None  of  that,  my  boy.  Rather  look  at  this  detail :  that 
distaff,  that  neck,  that  extended  arm.  Some  such  model  as 
this  inspired  in  Velazquez  the  admirable  neck  and  the  mag- 
nificent arm  of  his  Las  Hilanderas."  (The  Spinners.)  And 
then,  with  a  voice  of  mingled  affection  and  severity  he  added: 

"  You  know  that  at  the  Pole  everything  is  the  color  of  snow, 
—  even  the  wolves  and  the  bears.  In  Muzo  everything  is 
green,  from  the  emeralds  to  the  butterflies.  .  .  .  Here,  thought 
should  be  colored  by  the  predominating  hue:  white." 

"Shall  we  look  over  the  orchard?"  asked  the  mother,  re- 
turning to  them  with  an  obliging  air. 

They  ascended  the  stone  staircase  at  the  foot  of  which  some 
girls  were  embroidering;  they  passed  by  the  dormitory  and 
entered  the  sewing  room.  Above  the  tables  creaked  the  shears, 
tearing  into  the  cloths,  which  parted  noisily;  with  their  backs  to 
a  window  a  group  of  maidens  was  at  work,  and  behind  them, 
drenched  in  sunlight,  could  be  seen  the  orchard;  beyond  this 
lay  the  green  distance  of  la  Sabana.  They  crossed  the  cor- 
ridors again  and  then  descended  a  dark  flight  of  stairs  which 
creaked  at  every  step. 


HORTICULTURE  145 

"  Preneze  garde:   il  y  a  dix  marches"*-  ..." 

The  nun  returned  and  the  visitors  went  into  the  orchard. 

A  sensation  of  coolness  and  peace,  the  scent  of  lilies  and 
sweet  basil,  the  murmurs  of  an  invisible  spring  that  glided 
along  among  the  shrubbery,  the  melody  of  the  wind  that  made 
the  treetops  sway,  the  trilling  of  the  birds,  surrounded  them, 
penetrated  them,  touched  their  souls  like  a  language  of  mys- 
tery and  tenderness,  with  the  religious  accents  of  a  bygone 
age. 

The  sun,  causing  the  orange  leaves  to  glitter,  drenching  the 
banner  of  a  curubo,  and  caressing  the  leaves  of  the  fig-trees, 
reached  the  ground  and  played  about  in  meshes  of  light  and 
shade,  making  the  white  silhouettes  stand  out  in  relief  against 
the  dark  green  of  the  foliage.  Two  Sisters  were  going  back 
and  forth  silently,  and  while  one  gathered  flowers  the  other 
let  fall  from  the  watering  pot  a  curved  stream  which,  in  a 
rainbow-colored  cascade  dropped  gently  upon  the  leaves  and 
the  soil  which  it  darkened. 

Hearing  the  sound  of  trampled  leaves  in  the  path,  the  two 
Sisters  turned  their  heads.  Sister  Visitation,  red  as  a  poppy 
from  the  heat  and  her  efforts,  put  the  watering  pot  to  one  side, 
shook  her  black  apron  and  dried  her  hand.  Sister  San  Ligorio, 
placing  several  bunches  of  flowers  upon  a  stone  bench  advanced 
several  steps  toward  the  visitors.  Then,  in  the  middle  of  the 
path,  covered  by  a  shaded  light,  she  stopped  short. 

The  two  friends,  catching  sight  of  her,  removed  their  hats; 
Alejandro  stepped  back,  bowed  his  head  reverently,  in  deep 
respect;  it  was  as  if,  although  he  had  remained  standing,  he 
had  prostrated  himself  and  in  spirit  was  touching  the  dust 
with  his  forehead.  Roberto,  as  at  El  Consuelo,  observed  the 
Sister  with  profound  admiration. 

The  same  ineradicable  seal  of  nobility;  the  same  solemn 
sadness.  Her  fascinating  pupils  revealed  an  intense  inner 
life.  Mystic  devotion  covered  her  wan  face  with  alabastrine 
whiteness  and  seeming  transparency. 

Bouquets  of  white  roses,  bunches  of  lilies,  overflowing  her 
apron,  covered  her  bosom,  touched  her  neck,  and  kissed  her 
hands. 

"  Look,  Alejandro,  at  this  symphony  in  white." 

1  French.     "  Take  care ;   there  are  ten  steps." 


146  PAX 

Alejandro,  with  an  imperceptible  frown,  revealed  the  an- 
noyance of  one  who  hears  a  discordant  note  in  the  midst  of  a 
beautiful  chord, —  a  note  that  intrudes  upon  the  silence  of 
meditation.  Roberto  continued: 

"  A  veritable  vision;  the  dream  of  a  Christian  artist  realized 
in  marble." 

Alejandro  mastered  his  emotions.  He  assumed  a  natural, 
carefree  air. 

"  It  is  not  the  first  time,"  he  said  to  Roberto,  as  they  walked 
along  the  path,  "  that  I  see  her  thus  covered  with  flowers. 
.  .  .  Three  ...  no,  four  years  ago,  at  Nice,  in  the  battle 
of  flowers  .  .  .  her  carriage  was  the  best  decorated;  all  white, 
—  all  lilies,  as  now." 

The  two  friends  bowed  and  Doctor  Miranda  advanced;  the 
Sister  bowed  likewise. 

"Do  you  like  so  many  flowers?"  asked  the  Sister.  "It's 
the  month  of  flowers,  you  know, —  the  month  of  the  Virgin." 

"  Sister,"  said  Roberto,  plucking  a  lily,  "  you  recall  to  our 
minds  that  landscape  of  your  compatriot  Montalembert.  .  .  . 
A  relative  of  yours,  I  believe?  ...  in  which  Saint  Isabel  ap- 
pears with  the  roses.  ..." 

"  Man,"  interrupted  Alejandro,  "  don't  talk  such  nonsense 
before  the  Sisters  and  Sebastian.  It  was  not  Saint  Isabel.  It 
was  .  .  .  that  converted  Moorish  princess  .  .  .  who  was  sur- 
prised by  her  father  in  the  act  of  carrying  bread  to  the 
Christians.  And  when  the  irate  parent  opened  her  apron 
there  fell  to  the  ground  a  shower  of  roses." 

"Not  at  all!  It  was  Saint  Isabel,"  replied  Roberto,  half 
seriously  and  half  in  irony.  "What  do  you  know  about  it? 
.  .  .  You  looked  at  the  painting  and  made  up  the  story  your- 
self. .  .  .  You  settle  the  question  for  us,  Sebastian.  Let  Peter 
speak!" 

"Do  you  really  wish  to  know  the  truth,  gentlemen?  Do 
you  wish  me  to  settle  the  controversy?  How  delightful  it 
would  be  to  give  a  verdict  that  would  please  both  sides.  Well, 
it  was  Saint  Isabel  whose  loaves  of  bread  turned  to  roses." — 
And  as  he  sniffed  his  snuff  with  each  nostril,  and  rubbed  his 
fingers,  he  contemplated  Roberto's  satisfaction. 

"I've  won,  Alejandro." 

"  And  the  same  thing  happened  to  a  converted  Mooress,  ac- 


HORTICULTURE  147 

cording  to  a  pious  tradition  of  Andalusia,"  added  Doctor 
Miranda,  this  time  contemplating  Alejandro's  triumphant  smile. 

"  The  sale  of  these  flowers  at  times  produces  enough  for  the 
maintenance  of  our  poor  little  children,"  observed  Sister  San 
Ligorio  in  her  melodious  voice.  "  It's  the  opposite  of  the 
miracle  that  happens  here:  the  roses  are  transformed  into 
bread."  And  bowing,  she  crossed  the  path,  reached  the  door 
.  .  .  and  the  white  vision  disappeared. 

Sister  Visitacion  invited  them  to  walk  about  the  place  and 
see  the  little  wonders  she  had  worked.  They  skirted  some  let- 
tuce beds,  then  proceeded  to  a  strip  of  land  cut  by  black  fur- 
rows that  bristled  with  stakes  bearing  names  inscribed  upon 
white  cards.  The  doctor,  attracted  by  the  Latin,  bent  over  to 
decipher  the  writing. 

"  Septium  .  .  .  Trifolium  frangiferum  .  .  .  Spercula  arven- 
cis  .  .  .  Panem  germanicum.  .  .  " 

"Ah!  "  exclaimed  Sister  Visitacion  as  the  Doctor  read  the 
last  name  aloud,  "that  is  my  great  conquest;  it  is  the  Moha 
of  Hungary  .  .  .  poor  little  thing  ...  its  seed  sprouts  easily, 
even  where  drought  has  dried  up  all  other  species." 

Alejandro,  who  had  remained  taciturn,  attempted  to  feign  in- 
terest in  the  Sister's  explanation,  and  passed  his  hand  over  the 
ear  of  the  Moha. 

"  No,  Monsieur  Alejandro,"  exclaimed  the  Sister,  arching 
her  brows  in  fright  and  joining  her  hands  in  supplication. 
"  Don't  touch  it,  for  you'll  ruin  everything." 

They  continued  the  rounds  of  the  orchard;  in  one  corner, 
with  its  decoration  of  white  roses  stood  a  kiosk,  whence  came 
noisy  laughter.  Roberto,  hastening  toward  it,  saw  a  nun 
seated  upon  a  stone  bench. 

She  was  a  spectral  figure, —  a  white  mummy;  she  seemed 
hewn  out  of  a  block  of  ice;  from  her  eyes,  in  which  her  entire 
existence  had  taken  refuge,  flashed  sparks  that  betrayed  her 
surprise,  even  horror,  as  if  Roberto  were  brandishing  a  knife. 

"  This  is  Sister  San  Bernardo,"  murmured  Doctor  Miranda 
in  a  low  voice.  "  She  never  breaks  the  silence  except  with 
these  hysteric  laughs,  without  a  gesture,  without  a  contraction 
of  her  facial  muscles.  She  dwelt  in  Agua  de  Dios,  among 
lepers,  for  ten  years.  .  .  .  They  brought  her  here  ...  like  this 
.  .  .  crazy." 


148  PAX 

They  continued  their  walk  in  silence,  deeply  moved  by  their 
encounter  with  the  unexpected  apparition;  in  the  shadow  of  the 
wall  they  noticed  a  patch  of  enclosed  earth  upon  which  might 
he  made  out  the  imprint  of  an  aristocratic  foot,  and  here, 
amid  a  veritable  explosion  of  springtide  there  quivered  in  the 
breeze  a  bed  of  lilies. 

Doctor  Miranda  bent  down  again  to  read  the  inscriptions. 

"  Lirium  paneracium  .  .  .  Amarillis  farmensis  .  .  .  Amaril- 
lis  formosina.  .  .  ." 

Sister  Visitacion  thrust  forth  her  under  lip  and  her  frank 
features  portrayed  her  supreme  disdain. 

"  Ta,  ta,  ta.  .  .  .  These  are  merely  whims  of  Sister  San 
Ligorio's.  .  .  .  What  a  deal  of  trouble  for  nothing!  .  .  .  Use- 
less plants.  ...  Do  you  like  them,  Doctor?  .  .  .  Then  let  me 
explain:  this  is  the  Guernsey  lily,  so-called.  It  comes  orig- 
inally from  Japan,  but  so  naturalized  did  it  become  upon  the 
island  of  Guernsey  that  it  grows  there  in  abundance.  They 
flourish  only  once,  and  that's  why  our  Sister  is  so  fond  of 
them.  They  give  buds  like  this  here, —  cerese  color, —  filled 
with  venturin.  .  .  .  This  other  one  is  the  '  Santiago  lily,'  the 
cross  of  Calatrava.  .  .  .  See  this  bud  that's  about  to  open, 
Sefior  Alejandro.  .  .  .  What  pains  it  has  cost!  ...  It  is  cul- 
tivated in  earth  because  it  can't  bear  manure;  and  its  flower, 
which  is  this  ruby  velvet  streaked  with  gold  dust,  represents 
the  heraldic  lily,  the  French  fleur-de-lis.  It  lasts  only  five  or 
six  days,  and  the  cold  kills  it.  ...  The  Sister  adores  it!  ... 
When  they  are  about  to  blossom  she  takes  them  to  her  room. 
.  .  .  Just  take  a  look  yonder;  that  square  window  filled  with 
lilies." 

And  on  the  high  stone  wall  they  could  see  the  flower  pots 
filled  with  lilies  that  peered  through  the  iron  bars  and  swayed 
their  white  and  red  chalices  to  the  afternoon  breezes. 

"  You  knew  Sister  San  Ligorio  in  Europe,  did  you  not, 
Alejandro,  before  she  entered  this  order?  "  asked  Doctor  Mi- 
randa. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Roberto,  "  that  I  heard  you  say 
you  met  her  in  your  travels  to  the  Orient." 

They  strolled  along  silently,  enveloped  by  the  odor  of  the 
humid  soil;  their  footsteps  were  heard  upon  the  gravel  of 
the  path  and  upon  some  dried  leaves.  Inquiring  glances  were 


HORTICULTURE  149 

turned  upon  Alejandro,  who,  with  an  effort,  began  to  speak 
in  that  same  muffled,  melancholy  tone  with  which  he  had 
spoken  to  Roberto  that  very  morning. 

"  In  Jerusalem,  in  the  temple  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher,  un- 
der the  immense  cupola  shone  the  colored  marbles  in  the  light 
of  the  candles  and  the  silver  lamps;  the  sanctuary,  which  is 
set  like  a  jewel  in  the  midst  of  the  temple,  is  divided  into  two 
compartments.  I  waited  in  the  first  for  my  turn  to  enter. 
.  .  .  Whereupon  somebody  came  out,  stopping  in  the  low 
doorway,  and  I  was  able  to  penetrate  into  the  very  abode  of 
the  Holy  Sepulcher.  The  air  was  dense,  and  clouds  of  in- 
cense floated  in  the  mysterious  light  of  the  lamps;  the  yellow 
marble  walls  were  illuminated.  A  solemn  silence  reigned.  I 
beheld  before  me  a  prostrate  body,  a  face  pressed  upon  the 
sacred  marble.  I  heard  a  sigh.  .  .  ." 

He  paused,  unable  to  go  on,  dominated  by  a  profound  emo- 
tion. 

A  bell  sounded  and  they  sauntered  along  silently,  lulled 
by  the  atmosphere  of  the  afternoon,  by  the  ambient  of  peace 
and  retirement  in  which  the  odor  of  incense  and  of  the  lilies, 
the  aroma  of  prayer  and  of  the  orchard  balsam  seemed  to  be 
mingled.  Soon  there  arose  the  song  of  youthful  voices,  a  choir 
of  children  singing  the  evening  hymn. 

"  Salve,  Regina  Mater.  .  .  ." 

All  lifted  their  glances  to  the  wall,  which  was  bathed  in  a 
golden  glow,  fairly  riddled  with  little  holes  into  which  the 
sparrows  flew  with  a  joyous  twitter.  Near  the  ground,  in  the 
moisture,  the  rocks  were  covered  with  moss  that  had  the  rich, 
dark  color  of  clotted  blood;  further  up,  amid  festoons  of  ivy,  the 
weatherbeaten  blocks  of  stone  seemed  sooted  by  the  smoke  of 
of  a  conflagration  and  were  here  and  there  covered  with  a 
greenish  growth  as  soft  as  plush  and  as  rich  as  magnificent 
cloth;  and  yonder,  amid  this  harmony  of  hues,  shone  the 
white  and  red  lilies  which,  against  the  somber  shades  of  the 
wall,  symbolized  those  pure  and  ardent  souls  that  bloom  in 
oblivion,  that  bring  the  gladness  of  their  chaste  love  to  the 
solitary  sadness  of  the  retreat,  smiling  behind  the  gratings 
and  sweetening  the  gloom  of  the  cloister  with  their  prayer. 


\ 

150  PAX 

CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   LAMP   OF    THE    SANCTUARY 

THEY  left.  The  peach-tree  branches  cast  shadows  from 
across  the  wall  into  the  deserted  plazuela.  The  belfry  shone 
in  the  dying  light  of  the  day. 

"  Now  you  see  that  I've  made  you  pay  a  visit  to  la  Car- 
tuja  or  to  the  Desert  of  La  Candelaria,  without  mounting  a 
mule  or  going  by  railroad." 

"Yes.  .  .  .  That  is  to  say.  .  .  .  What  were  you  asking?" 
said  Alejandro,  with  a  distant  look  in  his  eyes. 

Opposite  them,  amid  the  banks  of  the  river,  arose  a  line  of 
roofs,  and  beyond,  through  the  bluish  mist,  could  be  seen  the 
curve  of  the  ridge. 

Roberto  managed  to  convey  to  Doctor  Miranda  with  a  wink 
that  Alejandro  was  lost  in  thought.  The  Doctor,  closing  his 
eyes,  answered  with  a  smile. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  this  spot,  Alejandro?  " 

"This  spot?  "  he  replied,  with  an  evident  desire  to  contra- 
dict.— "This  spot?  Do  you  mean  to  imply  that  it's  poetic? 
A  suburb,  a  ruined  belfry,  a  solitary  orchard,  and  that's  all. 
.  .  .  Couldn't  modern  Bogota  have  done  away  with  all  evidences 
of  colonial  days?  .  .  .  What?  ...  Do  you  imagine  that  we 
must  leave  this  place  with  contrite,  penitent  spirits?" 

A  crow's  shadow  sped  along  the  ground.  In  a  little  win- 
dow of  the  fagade  the  breeze  caused  a  withered  palm  branch, 
which  was  entwined  in  the  bars  of  the  grating,  to  quiver. 

"  I  can  easily  see,"  said  Roberto,  "  that  this  is  one  of  your 
black  hours." 

Alejandro  frowned,  moved  his  lips  as  if  about  to  reply, 
but  said  nothing. 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  all  have,  or  have  had,  such  hours," 
ventured  the  doctor,  in  a  natural  tone,  fearing  any  suggestion 
of  preachiness.  "  But,  my  dear  Roberto,  they  are  not  black 
hours;  on  the  contrary,  they  are  white  ones." 

Slowly  they  reached  the  end  of  the  plazuela.  From  be- 
low came  the  noise  of  the  river  among  the  stones,  the  sound  of 
clothes  being  washed,  the  bleating  of  a  goat  as  it  climbed  the 
slope,  the  songs  of  the  washerwomen. 


THE  LAMP  OF  THE  SANCTUARY  151 

"And  why  white  hours?"  asked  Alejandro,  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  "  To  me  they  are  black.  .  .  .  Or,  if  you  won't  have 
that  color,  at  least  they  are  gray." 

"  Those  are  the  moments  during  which  we  all  look  within, 
and  retreat  to  the  depths  of  our  consciences." 

Alejandro  said  nothing  in  reply.  Doctor  Miranda  contin- 
ued. 

"  This  internal  struggle,  these  hours  of  melancholy,  of  gloom 
...  all  this  is  grace,  Alejandro." 

Then,  pulling  out  his  watch  and  looking  at  it  in  the  palm 
of  his  hand,  he  exclaimed,  "  I've  got  something  important 
to  do!  "  And  he  walked  off  with  long  strides. 

As  he  hastened  down  the  slope  the  priest's  cloak  swelled 
and  spread  to  the  air;  his  tall,  thin  figure  stood  out  against 
the  wall,  then  disappeared  behind  a  bend. 

Both  friends  remained  silent;  Alejandro  was  more  taciturn 
than  ever.  Roberto  feared  to  provoke  new  contradictions.  He 
knew  that  character  well,  and  knew,  too,  that  in  such  moments 
as  these  it  was  best  to  leave  him  with  his  thoughts.  They 
descended.  It  was  their  habit  to  observe,  to  seek  details,  that 
they  might  discover  in  the  least  significant  things  an  artistic 
line,  an  attitude,  a  patch  of  color,  which  afterward  would 
appear  in  the  shape  of  a  vigorous  page  of  writing  or  a  striking 
bit  of  painting.  From  their  height  could  be  seen  the  interiors 
of  houses,  which  seemed  to  fall  upon  the  river,  showing  them- 
selves with  a  certain  air  of  familiarity,  abandonment,  confi- 
dence; series  of  stories,  flashing  panes,  tortuous  flights,  bal- 
conies overlooking  the  abyss,  adorned  with  shrubs,  cages,  bunches 
of  flowers.  .  .  .  They  continued  their  descent;  they  reached  an- 
other level  space,  from  which  they  could  make  out  toward  the 
west,  the  uneven  line  of  roofs  which  displayed  such  a  variety 
of  red:  the  spires,  the  curve  of  a  cupola,  chimneys,  clouds  of 
smoke,  and  beyond,  la  Sabana,  greenish,  and  like  a  dead 
lake. 

They  wished  to  converse,  to  exchange  a  few  remarks,  but 
they  could  not  find  the  opening  word.  Everything  seemed  fu- 
tile to  them,  unworthy  of  breaking  the  silence,  of  disturbing 
their  deep  and  simple  emotions.  Roberto  felt  that  both  bore  in 
their  souls  the  ideal  impressions  of  the  afternoon, —  the  peace 
of  the  orchard,  the  priest's  discourse,  the  cloister's  sense  of 


152  PAX 

withdrawal  from  the  world,  an  aroma  of  sanctity,  "  the  white 
vision,"  the  lilies  .  .  .  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  if  a  word 
were  uttered  it  would  blot  out  everything,  even  as  when  a 
stone  is  cast  into  the  waters  of  a  lake  the  reflected  images  dis- 
appear: a  marble  statue,  the  facade  of  a  temple,  the  pure  blue, 
the  peace  of  the  infinite  sky. 

They  noticed,  in  the  center  of  the  little  square,  a  fountain 
with  three  silver  spouts.  Against  the  stone  edge  stood  a  maiden 
in  the  attitude  of  a  caryatid,  her  tresses  curled  about  her  head, 
pitcher  on  her  shoulder,  held  by  an  elegantly  curved  nude  arm, 
while  the  other  arm  fell  against  the  wet  skirt  which  brought 
out  her  body  in  sculptural  relief. 

Not  far  away  was  a  group  of  countryfolk,  who,  harnessing 
an  ox,  were  wearily  watching  the  departing  day  and  prepar- 
ing to  return  to  their  mountains. 

The  two  friends,  as  if  coming  back  from  a  long  voyage,  be- 
fore they  took  the  path  that  would  bring  them  again  to  the 
city's  tumult,  turned  with  the  sadness  of  farewell  for  a  final 
glimpse  of  the  heights,  the  hill  with  its  cluster  of  houses  ranged 
about  like  an  amphitheater,  and  the  belfry  peering  from  above 
the  trees. 

They  continued  their  homeward  way  amid  rural  scenes :  chil- 
dren flying  a  kite,  a  hen  with  her  brood,  the  murmuring  of  a 
little  stream  that  wound  about  a  house  built  amid  the  brakes. 
Further  on  the  laborers  were  chatting  at  the  doors  of  their 
workshops.  A  row  of  children  were  climbing  the  slope  with 
pitchers  of  water. 

After  a  protracted  silence  Alejandro  suddenly  spoke: 

"  Bellegarde  maintains  that  the  Magdalen  we  were  speaking 
about  is  the  work  of  the  Spaniard  Carreno ;  I  believe  that  it's  an 
original  or  a  copy  of  Guido  Reni.  I'd  like  to  look  at  the 

painting  again  and  study  it  with  greater  leisure Do 

you  care  to  come  along?  " 

Roberto  excused  himself.  Alejandro  walked  off  toward  the 
temple;  a  vague  desire  led  him  to  some  place  where  he  could 
prolong,  in  solitude,  the  impressions  of  the  afternoon. 

He  hastened  along,  fearing  that  there  would  not  be  enough 
light.  A  little  while  later  he  was  in  the  church,  before  the 
painting  of  the  Magdalen.  It  was  an  excellent  hour  for  view- 


THE  LAMP  OF  THE  SANCTUARY  153 

ing  it,  for  a  stream  of  light  from  a  lateral  window  bathed  the 
picture. 

The  saint  was  represented  as  reclining  upon  a  rock;  behind 
was  a  landscape,  an  afternoon  sky,  a  yellowish  rim  on  the 
horizon.  Her  head  was  thrust  back,  her  eyes  turned  heaven- 
ward, and  she  seemed  to  be  conversing  with  the  angels,  who 
were  floating  downward,  bearing  a  wreath.  A  red  garment, 
with  ample  folds,  fell  from  her  girdle  to  the  ground;  from 
out  of  this  cloak  issued  her  bosom,  as  delicate  as  a  lily. 

A  ray  of  sunlight  crossed  the  central  nave  and  fell  upon  the 
red  cloak,  as  if  to  enhance  the  artist's  effect,  enlivening  the  gen- 
eral tonality  and  brightening  the  cloak  against  the  rocks. 

Alejandro  removed  his  attention  from  the  lines  and  the 
colors  of  the  artist,  thinking  that  he  had  penetrated  into  the 
inner  thought,  the  theme  of  the  composition,  the  poem  of  the 
cloak,  of  the  hair  and  the  hands;  this  mantle  which  amid  the 
rural  landscape  was  like  a  relic  of  the  former  pomp  that  the 
repentant  courtesan  had  abandoned,  those  hands  that  bore 
the  aromas  to  the  Sepulcher,  and  that  abundant  head  of  hair 
whose  silken  tresses  dried  the  feet  of  the  Savior  in  the  feast, 
anointed  with  the  spikenard  from  the  alabastrine  vase.  Her 
hand  was  stroking  back  her  hair  in  an  attitude  that  recalled,  as 
if  in  her  despite,  the  former  sinner. 

In  the  movement  of  both  hands,  in  the  cloak  and  the  hair 
were  symbolized  the  past  and  the  present.  .  .  .  Time,  the  best 
of  colorists,  had  blended  the  hues,  gilded  the  whiteness  and 
softened  the  outlines. 

"  There's  no  doubt  about  it,"  said  Alejandro,  stepping  back. 
"  Original  or  copy,  that's  by  Guido.  "  I  can't  see  how  Belle- 
garde  can  deny  it.  That  skill  in  the  folds  of  the  cloak,  the 
hair  treated  so  distinctively,  those  half  tints  with  the  bluish 
tones,  betray  without  a  doubt  the  hand  of  the  master." 

The  twilight  beam  that  fell  obliquely  through  the  transom 
kept  rising,  trembled,  cast  a  rainbow  glitter  upon  the  prism  of 
a  chandelier  and  then  was  extinguished.  Alejandro  had  to 
draw  closer;  the  colors  of  the  canvas  had  grown  dimmer,  and 
the  outlines  of  the  figure  were  blotted  out. 

From  the  transom  falls  a  waning  light;  the  solitary  church 
is  invaded  by  shadows. 


154  PAX 

The  sparkle  of  the  prisms,  the  glitter  of  the  altar-pieces, 
the  glad  color  of  the  flowers,  have  paled  and  died. 

From  the  cupola  descends  a  livid  light  that  scarcely  illumines 
the  principal  arch.  The  shadows  continue  to  engulf  the  place, 
effacing  lights  and  colors,  until  only  a  penumbra  is  left  in 
the  center  of  the  cupola,  and  there  at  the  end,  in  a  corner  bathed 
in  gloom,  two  transoms  that  seem  to  peer  into  the  darkness 
like  two  green  eyes.  The  darkness,  more  and  more  dense,  in- 
vades the  arches  of  the  confessionaries,  the  corners  of  the  al- 
tars, the  curves  of  the  arcade.  Only  at  the  rear,  in  a  lateral 
chapel,  is  there  a  yellowish  light,  a  ray  of  dying  light  that 
quivers,  glides  along  the  wall,  rises  to  the  vaulted  ceiling,  turns 
the  final  sunbeam  of  the  cupola  greener  than  ever,  crosses  the 
roof  diagonally,  and  is  reflected  upon  the  back  of  the  pews, 
finally  being  extinguished  in  the  depths  of  the  choir. 

Alejandro  advanced  several  paces  toward  the  rear  of  the 
church.  To  the  right,  in  a  nave,  above  a  wooden  candelabra, 
the  candle  that  had  been  left  there  like  a  prayer  by  some  un- 
fortunate, was  flickering  before  a  crucifix.  At  times  the  burn- 
ing wick  would  flicker  up  and  send  the  shadows  dancing  across 
the  pilaster;  at  other  times  the  flame  would  seem  to  have  gone 
out,  whereupon  it  would  light  up  anew  with  another  lease  of 
life.  This  agony  of  the  candle  illuminating  the  agony  of  the 
crucifix  filled  Alejandro  with  indefinable  sadness.  Why?  He 
could  not  explain  it.  ...  Perhaps  it  was  his  old  faith,  his 
childhood  piety,  which  was  still  struggling  in  the  shadows,  and 
which  was  about  to  be  extinguished  forever?  .  .  .  The  candle 
went  out.  The  nave  was  left  in  darkness.  Only  forward,  in 
the  lateral  chapel,  was  there  a  delicate  ray  of  light.  He  ad- 
vanced. The  lamp  suspended  from  three  silver  chains,  swayed 
and  turned  with  scarcely  perceptible  rhythm,  projecting  upon  the 
whitish  wall  the  moving  shadow  of  a  chain, —  a  shadow  which, 
parting  from  the  altar,  glided  along,  crossed  a  stone  statue  in 
its  niche,  floated  over  a  pilaster,  reached  the  edge  of  the 
arch  and  was  lost  in  the  gloom;  then,  after  a  space  of  time, 
it  reached  the  edge  of  the  arch  again,  returned  to  the  stone 
statue,  thence  to  the  altar,  gliding  with  a  spectral  motion. 

A  vague  fear  took  hold  of  Alejandro, —  the  fear  of  the  super- 
natural: the  shadow  that  swung  along  the  walls  was  about  to 
come  to  life,  to  rise  before  him,  to  address  mysterious  words 


THE  LAMP  OF  THE  SANCTUARY  155 

to  him,  in  menacing  accents.  From  the  obscure  corners  issued 
sounds  that  reverberated  hauntingly  from  vault  to  vault.  He 
recalled  that  fugitive  ray  that  had  alighted  that  morning  upon 
the  steel  coat  of  mail,  and  that  had  returned  that  afternoon 
with  mysterious  persistence  to  illuminate  the  canvas  of  the 
repentant  sinner.  He  wished  to  flee  that  place,  free  himself 
from  these  childish  terrors;  but  soon  there  rose  before  him  with 
extraordinary  vividness  the  vision  of  the  orchard  with  her 
sunken  cheeks,  with  her  blue  eyes  that  were  so  strangely  fasci- 
nating, and  he  was  rooted  to  the  spot,  confused  and  ashamed. 
Such  a  recollection,  so  pure  and  so  sacred,  could  not  have  re- 
mained in  a  defiled  conscience.  All  the  recollections  of  the 
morning  passed  before  him  anew,  clear  as  day  and  sorrowful  in 
his  feverish  imagination.  He  was  overwhelmed  by  an  inex- 
plicable moodiness,  a  dense  shadow  enveloped  him,  and  all  hope 
of  happiness  was  dead. 

From  afar  came  muffled  voices,  an  ample  rhythm  filled  with 
tenderness  and  mystery.  They  came  from  an  invisible  place, 
echoed  from  arch  to  arch,  and,  like  the  light,  died  languidly 
in  the  corners  of  the  sanctuary. 

From  a  distant  chapel  came  the  voice  of  the  officiant.  "  Salve 
Regina  Mater," —  and  there  resounded  in  the  temple  a  cata- 
comb-like murmur.  Then  came  the  perfume  of  incense,  and 
with  it,  the  remembrance  of  something  long  past, —  the  aroma 
of  childhood,  of  spontaneous  piety.  The  chorus  of  children's 
voices  arose, —  a  simple,  tender  music, —  something  familiar 
that  he  had  himself  sung  when  a  boy, —  the  melody  of  inno- 
cence, submission  and  purity. 

The  music  came  to  him  engulfed  in  waves  of  incense,  in  the 
delicate  odor  of  flowers,  and  then,  thanks  to  the  mysterious 
power  of  the  rhythm,  as  if  all  at  once  his  years  of  storm  and 
stress  had  been  blotted  out,  he  beheld  a  picture  of  former, 
better  years:  the  chapel  of  the  hacienda,  the  Virgin's  cele- 
brated nightly  in  the  family  circle.  ...  A  whole  dead  gen- 
eration, of  which  only  he  was  left  floating  on  the  surface  like 
a  stray  spar  from  a  shipwreck. 

Before  Alejandro's  eyes  the  shadow  of  the  lamp  crossed 
anew,  passing  the  arch  and  sinking  slowly  into  the  gloom.  .  .  . 

In  the  meantime  the  chant  grew  sweeter  and  more  appealing, 
—  the  musical  phrase  that  seemed  so  friendly  to  Alejandro  was 


156  PAX 

repeated,  and  he  let  himself  be  drawn  along  by  it,  his  soul  being 
swung  in  rhythms  of  hope  and  tenderness.  There  came  an- 
other picture  before  his  eyes,  and  his  heart  pulsed  with  the 
free,  steady  flow  of  his  earliest  years :  the  altar,  the  candles,  the 
little  wreaths  of  orange-blossoms,  the  snow-white  cloth,  the 
large  cup  that  quivered  in  the  priest's  hands,  and  then  ecstasy, 
—  the  promises  of  the  first  communion,  the  offering  of  his 
life  to  an  existence  of  self-denial  and  purity.  .  .  . 

On  the  wall,  like  a  specter,  the  shadow  of  the  chain  silently 
crossed  and  was  lost  in  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE   ELM    AND    THE   IVY 

UNDER  the  sun  of  that  cheerful  morning,  amid  the  buzz  of 
conversation  and  laughter,  the  whir  of  wheels  and  the  snapping 
of  whips,  the  carriages  keep  arriving  at  the  Capilla  del  Sa- 
grario;  the  horses  are  spirited,  the  harnesses  shine,  the  coach- 
men are  well-shaved.  "The  bridal  pair!"  murmur  the  in- 
quisitive bystanders.  And  a  crowd  encircles  the  closed  coupes 
that  halt  before  the  steps,  while  the  gray  horses  proudly  shake 
the  white  ribbons  floating  from  their  ears.  Orange-blossoms 
hang  from  the  whips  of  the  coachmen  and  adorn  their  coats, 
and  through  the  window  may  be  seen,  in  a  dark  corner,  the  pro- 
file of  a  woman. 

A  door  opened  and  there  appeared  a  huge  foot,  the  leg  of  a 
colossus,  a  bulging  shirt-front  upon  which  sparkled  three  large 
diamonds;  the  top  of  a  silk  hat  hit  against  the  roof  of  the 
carriage  and  out  came  Montellano,  who  walked  toward  the 
entrance  of  the  church  with  his  hat  still  askew.  From  the 
other  carriage  issued  Dona  Aura,  dressed  in  black  silk,  and  she 
followed  Montellano  with  a  courtly  gait,  upon  the  arm  of 
Landaburo,  who  was  the  best  man;  the  latter  swept  the  crowd 
with  his  glance,  but  was  aware  only  of  his  own  presence. 

As  they  entered  the  choir  burst  into  a  triumphal  march  which, 
filling  the  entire  edifice,  awoke  in  Dona  Aura  emotions  that  she 
could  scarcely  repress.  While  the  bride  crossed  the  temple, 
amid  the  flashing  attire  and  the  intoxicating  perfumes  of  the 


THE  ELM  AND  THE  IVY  157 

guests,  she  recalled  her  first  marriage  to  Tubalcain  Cardoso, 
in  a  humble  village,  while  now  she  advanced  erect,  her  eyes 
aglow  with  victory.  She  thought,  too,  of  all  the  guile  and  cun- 
ning she  had  employed  to  win  the  millionaire  . 

Montellano  and  Dona  Aura  kneeled  down  upon  the  prayer- 
mats  of  red  velvet,  and  the  bulk  of  their  persons  seemed  to 
fill  the  entire  front  of  the  chancel.  .  .  .  "At  last  .  .  .  there  \s 
no  doubt  of  it,"  Dona  Aura  was  thinking.  Montellano  was 
there  at  her  side;  he  shook  the  prayer-mat  with  his  weight  and 
she  could  hear  his  bullock-like  breathing.  .  .  .  Within  half  an 
hour  her  union  with  the  millionaire  would  be  an  eternal  one,  and 
that  happy  phrase  which  had  come  to  her  during  one  of  her  in- 
terviews would  be  realized. 

What  a  great  chapter  this  scene  would  make;  what  a  splen- 
did denouement!  She  would  have  to  change  that  title  Angel 
or  Demon,  for  something  more  suggestive,  more  poetic:  The 
Elm  and  the  Ivy.  She  tried  hard  to  retain  the  emotions  that 
were  coursing  through  her,  that  she  might  represent  them  later 
in  the  heroine  of  the  novel,  Aurora;  and  she  gazed  closely  at 
all  about  her  that  she  might  paint  the  scene  in  her  book  in  all 
the  color  of  reality,  just  as  the  brothers  de  Goncourt  did.  Al- 
though the  ceremony  had  already  begun,  she  paid  little  atten- 
tion, given  over  as  she  was  to  her  literary  preoccupations :  above 
the  chancel  arose  four  tall  candles  adorned  with  orange  blos- 
soms, lighting  up  the  dark  background  of  the  altar;  they  were 
dimmed  by  the  spirals  of  incense ;  an  oblique  sunbeam  scattered 
luminous  shafts  amid  the  bluish  haze,  was  mirrored  in  the 
tabernacle  plaques,  and  landed  upon  the  edge  of  the  white  page 
of  the  missal  that  was  crossed  by  a  red  ribbon.  She  discovered 
a  new  detail,  with  which  she  promised  herself  to  achieve  a 
grandiose  effect:  in  the  two  gloomy  corners,  at  either  side,  ap- 
peared the  head  of  the  Baptist  and  that  of  Saint  Paul  in  two 
silver  platters,  a  bloody  circle  about  their  neck,  their  lips  livid, 
bathed  by  a  tragic  pallor  in  which  might  be  divined  the  final 
agonized  tremor. 

The  music  ceased;  the  choir  ended  its  triumphal  march. 
There  appeared  in  the  middle  of  the  chancel  Doctor  Miranda, 
wearing  the  pluvial  and  holding  a  book  in  his  hand.  There  he 
stood,  erect  upon  the  st;ps  of  the  altar,  wrapped  in  the  cloak, 
which  fell  in  perpendicular  folds,  illuminated  by  a  stream  of 


158  PAX 

light  from  above,  in  all  the  glory  of  his  virginal  vigor,  his 
ascetic  beauty,  imposing  love  and  respect  upon  the  multitudes. 
Amid  a  hush  he  turned  toward  the  bridal  pair,  and  his  full, 
vibrant  voice  resounded  in  the  vaults  of  the  temple. 

"  You  are  about  to  celebrate  the  holy  sacrament  of  matri- 
mony. ..." 

From  the  square  outside  came  the  noise  of  wheels.  A  car- 
riage stopped.  All  eyes  are  turned:  the  flowers,  the  ribbons, 
the  hats,  stir;  heads  get  close  together  and  whisper.  Ines 
advances  with  a  graceful  gait,  smiling  to  all  without  resting  her 
gaze  upon  any.  She  reaches  the  center  of  the  church,  seeks  a 
place  with  her  eyes,  returns ;  Roberto  arises,  offers  her  his  chair 
and  remains  at  her  side.  The  heads  turn  back  to  the  altar; 
from  behind  can  only  be  seen  the  row  of  backs,  the  dark  patches 
of  hair  amid  the  bright  colors  of  the  clothes  and  the  hats. 

From  his  place  Roberto  notes  that  in  the  first  row,  near  the 
chancel,  there  flutter  from  a  hat  two  poppy  buds;  and  he  feels 
that  Dolores  will  experience  a  nervous  uneasiness  on  seeing  him 
at  Ines'  side. 

From  the  chorus,  meanwhile,  rises  la  Rondinelli's  voice.  She 
sings  a  slow  melody  with  a  simple  rhythm  which  breaks  into  a 
sonorous,  powerful,  freely  soaring  phrase  like  an  improviza- 
tion  sustained  by  harmonies  in  its  flight;  at  first  it  is  like  an 
ardent  breath,  then  it  becomes  slower  and  finally  languishes 
and  dies  in  a  sigh. 

And  Dona  Aura,  inspired  by  this  melody,  by  the  splendor 
that  surrounds  her,  elaborates  the  plot  of  her  novel:  a  large 
Oriental  city  on  the  banks  of  the  Caspian  Sea  .  .  .  besieged  by 
the  tyrant  Ronderil  with  the  aid  of  the  Nabab  Montelino.  The 
leader  of  the  beleaguered  forces,  Tubal-kin,  dies  .  .  .  the  be- 
sieged are  already  discussing  surrender  when  the  wife  of  the 
dead  chief,  the  inspired  poetess  Aurora,  a  new  Judith,  re- 
solves to  visit  the  enemy  camp.  Before  the  great  Nabab  she 
is  seized  with  trembling,  and  falls  in  love  with  the  new 
Holofernes  and,  instead  of  slashing  his  throat,  marries  him. 
This  novel  will  be  called  ...  she  has  already  found  the 
title  .  .  .  The  Elm  and  the  Ivy,  or,  The  New  Judith  of 
Negroponto. 

"  Sefiora  Aura  del  Campo,  do  you  take  Senor  Ramon  Montel- 
lano  for  your  lawfully  wedded  husband?  ..." 


THE  ELM  AND  THE  IVY  159 

Dona  Aura  was  silent,  engrossed  in  her  exciting  plot.  There 
was  a  surprised,  painful  hush.  Had  Dona  Aura  changed  her 
mind  ?  But  Montellano,  in  his  thundering  voice,  exclaimed : 

"  Sefiora,  did  you  hear?  " 

"Yes,  I  do!     Yes,  yes,  I  do!" 

The  ceremony  came  to  an  end. 

To  the  strains  of  a  joyous  waltz  the  gathering  began  to 
leave,  headed  by  Don  Ramon  and  her  who  was  now  Dona  Aura 
del  Campo  de  Montellano.  Behind  came  a  long  row  of  couples ; 
Roberto  with  Ines,  Alcon  with  Dolores. 

When  the  guests  arrived  at  the  Montellano  mansion  they 
found  a  crowd  of  curious  onlookers  being  held  back  by  two 
policemen  of  stupid  appearance,  garbed  in  long  coats  and 
wearing  Prussian  helmets  with  white  metal  designs.  They 
trod  upon  the  carpets  that  had  lately  been  spread  out  across 
the  zaguan  and  the  staircase;  they  made  their  way  amid  pines, 
palms,  Abyssinian  plane  trees  that  filled  the  atmosphere  with 
a  moist,  forest-like  odor.  The  exotic  fronds  quivered  from 
contact  with  the  people,  heightening  the  bright  colors  of  the 
dresses  that  swished  on  the  staircase  and  afterward  glided  off 
over  the  thick  carpets. 

"A  pencil!  Paper!"  cried  Dona  Aura.  My  inspiration's 
evaporating.  .  .  ."  Crossing  the  salons  she  reached  the  writ- 
ing-room that  had  been  prepared  for  her  in  her  new  home, 
and  with  feverish  hand  scribbled  several  sentences,  a  few 
words  that  would  later  form  part  of  her  great  concluding 
chapter. 

In  the  meantime  Montellano  had  been  eagerly  seeking  Doctor 
Alcon;  he  took  him  from  Dolores'  arm  and  carried  him  off 
to  his  office.  The  sunlight  was  playing  upon  the  safe,  upon 
the  letter-press,  and  was  glittering  cheerily  upon  the  brandy 
bottles. 

"  Doctor  Alcon,  I  was  thinking  of  you  at  church  .  .  .  and 
I  have  gathered  in  the  entire  debt  of  1848;  now  we  need  that 
decree  reestablishing  the  amortization  fund.  Reestablish? 
No!  ...  It  must  be  doubled.  ...  I  can  count  on  you,  can't  I? 
Here,  have  a  glass  of  whiskey?  .  .  .  You  don't  like  it?  It 
cost  ten  shillings  sixpence  per  flask.  Well,  here's  some  Otard 
Dupay  .  .  .  this  costs  twenty-five  francs.  .  .  .  Not  this, 
either?  Off  then,  and  hunt  up  your  partner.  .  .  .  Wait  a  mo- 


160  PAX 

ment.  .  .  .  Pay  me  to-morrow  the  amount  of  that  last  loan 
.  .  .  that's  what  we  agreed  upon.  ...  I  count  on  you.  ..." 

"  Not  to-morrow,  because  it's  Corpus  ...  the  day  after  to- 
morrow, for  sure.  .  .  .  I'll  do  my  best.  I  have  a  very  scrupul- 
ous chief." 

Alcon,  finding  himself  thus  indirectly  supported  by  Lola's 
father,  encouraged  in  his  hopes,  crossed  the  gallery  in  high 
feather,  elbowed  his  way  through  the  crowd  and  sought  her  in 
the  main  salon,  the  former  hall  of  portraits.  Not  finding  her, 
he  waited  till  she  should  come. 

Dolores,  who  was  in  the  dressing-room  to  which  the  women 
were  coming  to  leave  their  hats  and  arrange  their  hair,  awaited 
uneasily,  and  almost  in  fear,  the  moment  when  Ines  should 
come  in;  she  would  then  see  her  at  close  range, —  would  em- 
brace the  widely  applauded  beauty  who  was  standing  in  the 
way  of  her  happiness.  And  from  behind  a  screen  she  spied  her 
arrival  with  a  palpitating  heart.  She  saw  her  approach  arm 
in  arm  with  Roberto,  who  left  her  at  the  staircase  landing ;  then 
she  saw  her  cross  the  gallery.  As  they  met  in  the  doorway, 
Dolores  for  a  moment  held  back,  but  Ines  stepped  forward, 
smiled,  held  out  her  hand;  they  kissed,  left  the  room  and 
crossed  the  salons;  upon  catching  sight  of  them,  all  observed 
the  contrast  between  these  two  types  of  beauty. 

The  beauty  of  the  one  was  of  a  turbulent  sort;  the  other's, 
of  regal  serenity.  Here  was  Dolores,  with  her  rounded  curves, 
her  thick,  black  hair,  her  ardent  eyes,  her  rosy  cheeks,  her 
large  hands.  There  was  Ines,  with  her  erect  carriage,  her  grace- 
ful step,  her  silken  tresses,  her  dreamy  eyes,  her  jessamine-like 
pallor,  and  her  long,  slender  hands,  as  perfectly  modelled  as  a 
jewel. 

Dolores  was  dressed  in  conservative  fashion ;  she  wore  a 
gown  of  red  velvet,  and  in  her  ears,  two  huge  diamonds;  Rob- 
erto's cousin  was  garbed  in  Alenc.on  lace  which  enwrapped  her 
like  a  wave  of  foam;  she  wore  no  jewels,  and  in  her  whole  at- 
tire there  was  noticeable  a  certain  personal  touch  that  dis- 
tinguished it  from  the  dress  in  vogue. 

Alcon  drew  near  to  offer  his  arm  to  Dolores;  Ines  crossed  the 
gallery,  between  two  rows  of  admirers  who  bowed  as  she  went 
by.  She  bowed  to  right  and  to  left,  with  a  word  here,  a  glance 
and  a  smile  there. 


THE  ELM  AND  THE  IVY  161 

Alcon  had  resolved  firmly  to  conquer  his  timidity  on  that  day 
and  declare  his  love  to  Dolores,  asking  her  to  marry  him. 
He  walked  through  the  rooms  admiring  the  velvet  furniture,  the 
taste  with  which  Montellano  had  replaced  the  faded  old  pieces 
of  the  house  with  brand  new  ones.  But  the  declaration  refused 
to  come  to  his  lips,  and  his  ivory  pate  was  bathed  in  purple 
flushes  that  betrayed  his  pleasure  or  his  discomfort.  Dolores 
listened  to  him  uneasily  and  with  her  thoughts  somewhere  else. 
This  marriage  of  her  father  had  been  very  painful  to  her,  and 
that  morning  she  had  wept  at  the  vivid  recollection  of  her 
mother;  besides,  she  could  not  look  without  intense  displeas- 
ure upon  this  new  authority  that  was  to  be  enthroned  in  Montel- 
lano's  heart  and  in  the  house  wherein  she  herself  had  dwelt  as 
sovereign  queen.  These  gloomy  notions  vanished  at  thought 
of  Roberto,  who  vaguely  represented  to  her  requited  love,  ruler- 
ship,  authority. 

All  at  once  there  was  heard  the  unmelodious  scraping  of  a 
violin,  the  runs  of  a  clarinet,  the  grumbling  of  a  bass  fiddle; 
three  raps  from  the  conductor's  baton;  and  then,  stirring  all 
nerves,  warming  all  hearts,  there  burst  forth  the  intoxicating 
strains  of  a  waltz  that  submerged  everything  beneath  a  flood 
of  warmth  and  enthusiasm;  before  the  myopic  eyes  of  Alcon  and 
the  restless  eyes  of  Dolores  whirled  dancing  couples,  mingling 
the  bright  hues  of  lace  and  velvet  with  the  monotonous  color 
of  the  dress  suits. 

Soon  Dolores  caught  sight  of  Roberto  seated  upon  a  divan  be- 
side Ines;  she  could  not  conceal  her  emotions  and  paused; 
her  arm  was  shaken  by  a  slight  tremor;  she  grew  pale,  then 
exceedingly  red.  Alcon  felt  his  partner's  shock  by  a  sort  of  re- 
bound; lifting  his  eyes  he  saw  Roberto,  and  it  occurred  to  him 
that  the  psychological  moment  had  arrived, —  the  longed-for  mo- 
ment in  which  he  could  broach  the  subject  of  marriage  to 
Dolores.  Taking  her  to  one  side,  away  from  the  sight  of  her 
rival,  he  murmured: 

"  Seiiorita  Dolores,  you  with  the  big,  dark  eyes,  now  filled 
with  passion,  now  roguish,  now  tenderness  itself;  endowed  with 
the  most  winsome  mouth  that  ever  a  brunette  was  blessed  with, 
and  a  most  piquant  brunette  at  that,  the  kind  that  makes  every 
eye  turn  for  a  second  look  when  she  passes  by;  with  wavy, 
abundant  hair  that  falls  over  your  temples  in  rebellious  locks, — 


162  PAX 

such  a  one  as  you,  allow  me  to  say,  should  not  tolerate  the 
antics  of  a  rascal  like  Roberto  who  abuses  the  gifts  he  posses- 
ses ...  a  sharp  wit,  a  certain  smatter  of  literature,  facility 
and  vehemence  in  expressing  himself,  such  education  as  may  be 
procured  here  .  .  .  using  them  to  deceive  you." 

"  No,  doctor;  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"  No?  Why,  I  have  this  business  of  love  at  my  finger 
tips  .  .  .  chimeras,  trifles,  bagatelles.  After  three  terrible  fits 
of  temper,  and  after  quarreling  with  the  ingrate  and  not  speak- 
ing with  him  for  a  few  days  that  seem  as  many  weeks,  and 
trying  to  make  him  jealous  by  flirting  with  one  of  your  many 
admirers,  among  whom  I  reckon  myself,  you  will  always  par- 
don him  in  the  end,  after  he  swears  the  vow  that  he  has  made 
and  broken  a  hundred  times, —  not  to  repeat  his  tricks.  But 
the  rascally  ingrate,  noting  the  falsity  of  the  indifference  with 
which  you  treat  him, —  for  you  are  not  skilled  in  deceit, — 
will  permit  himself  to  be  deceived  neither  by  your  assumption 
of  courteous  indifference  nor  by  your  fits  of  fury,  for  this  wily 
Roberto  knows  the  whys  and  wherefores  of  all  this  affected  in- 
difference. ..." 

In  Montellano's  room,  clouded  with  cigar  smoke,  there  were 
tables  for  players;  the  place  was  filled  with  gossip,  and  plenty 
of  ten-shilling-sixpence  whiskey  as  well  as  twenty-five-franc 
brandy  was  gulped  down. 

In  one  corner  Landaburo,  Doctor  Agiieros,  Polanco  and 
Mata  were  chatting.  The  merry  din  of  the  orchestra  drowned 
out  conversations  and  made  it  impossible  to  overhear  confiden- 
tial exchanges. 

"  Things  are  going  badly,"  the  doctor  was  saying,  as  he 
rolled  a  cigarette.  "  Ronderos  is  making  himself  solid;  his 
prestige,  despite  the  attacks  made  by  La  Revaluation,  is  spread- 
ing, and  the  peace  of  Warsaw  is  being  made  firm." 

"  This  cursed  canalization  business  has  saved  him,"  ob- 
served Landaburo.  "  Many  of  our  friends  are  deserting.  So- 
carraz  himself,  who  seemed  absolutely  unshakable,  has  ac- 
cepted a  position  from  Bellegarde." 

"  And  to  tell  the  truth,  they've  done  wonders  in  a  few 
months,"  added  Polanco.  "  When  I  first  heard  talk  of  the 
enterprise,  I  really  didn't  think  it  was  so  important  a  thing. 
They've  started  work  all  along  the  river;  there  are  thousands  of 


THE  ELM  AND  THE  IVY  163 

laborers   and  they're   scattering  their  money  right  and  left." 

"  The  enterprise  has  caught  the  public  fancy.  Roberto's 
articles  have  been  highly  effective, —  there's  no  denying  that," 
said  Agueros.  "  If  we  don't  buckle  down  to  something  definite, 
old  Ronderos  will  become  President.  On  the  canalized  river 
he'll  float  before  our  very  eyes  into  the  Palace  of  San  Car- 
los." 

The  orchestra  stopped  playing.  To  the  office  came  the  buzz 
of  conversations  from  the  other  rooms.  The  men  of  the  group 
thought  it  wiser  to  change  the  subject.  Mata  invited  them  to  a 
drink;  they  approached  the  table,  drained  the  glasses  and 
lighted  cigarettes.  Then  the  air  was  filled  anew  with  the 
strains  of  a  polka. 

"  We  need  no  better  organization,  my  friend,"  said  Landa- 
buro,  as  the  group  drew  together  again.  "  What  we  need  ab- 
solutely is  the  unified  direction  of  the  party, —  blind  obedience 
to  a  single  chief.  It's  utterly  necessary  for  you  to  proclaim 
my  candidacy  as  the  sole  leader  of  the  Revaluation  party;  I 
propose  this  to  you  with  the  soldierly  frankness  that  charac- 
terizes me,  and  as  the  only  possible  means  of  saving  our  great 
party.  Once  I  am  recognized  as  leader,  I  would  have  to  be 
handed  the  big  sums  that  our  fellow  partisans  have  contributed 
throughout  the  republic  for  the  wounded  soldiers  of  Poland." 

"  That's  a  difficult  matter,"  said  Agueros,  who  was  in  charge 
of  the  funds.  "  Unless  you  were  proclaimed  Director,  as  you 
wish." 

"  I  will  be,  ...  I'll  see  to  that,  my  dear  Agueros.  .  .  . 
I've  been  hunting  a  long  time,  like  Diogenes  and  his  lantern, 
for  the  man  who  could  exercise  a  unified  direction,  supreme  com- 
mand, and  I  have  found  him,  my  friends  ...  I  am  that 
man." 

"Hush!  "  said  Mata.  "Here's  another  glass.  Let's  rather 
go  into  the  dining-room.  .  .  .  Come  along!  " 

From  the  gallery  the  orchestra  filled  the  house  with  loud 
sounds;  the  brass  instruments  flashed,  and  the  bows  of  the 
violins  rose  and  fell;  the  men  of  the  group  made  their  way 
through  the  crowd  to  the  door  of  the  salon.  In  the  center, 
Dona  Aura,  with  affected  gestures  in  which  she  tried  to  conceal 
her  forty  years,  was  dividing  the  wedding-cake.  Landaburo, 
who  could  not  consent  to  play  a  secondary  role  in  anything,  had 


164  PAX 

no  sooner  caught  sight  of  her  than  he  elbowed  his  way  amid 
the  couples  to  the  side  of  the  poetess. 

"  Allow  me  to  help  you  in  this  poetic  ceremony." 

And  Landaburo  officiating,  the  poetic  ceremony  continued; 
none  of  the  guests  knew  what  to  do  with  these  hard,  black 
slices,  covered  with  silvered  balls  that  rolled  from  between  their 
teeth. 

Noticing  Mata  in  the  doorway,  Dona  Aura  raised  her  voice. 

"Let  the  ever-inspired  poet  recite  something  for  us!  " 

"Yes!  ...  Yes!  ..  ."  cried  several.     "  Let  him  speak!  " 

"  I  beg  you,  friend  bard." 

"  The  Black  Song." 

"  The  Ballad  of  Despair!  " 

"  Metamorphosis." 

"  Symphony  in  gray  major" 

"  Egyptian  Nostalgia" 

"Yes!  Yes!  That's  it!  Egyptian  Nostalgia"  They  led 
the  poet  to  a  corner  of  the  salon,  the  partners  were  seated,  and 
Mata  began  to  recite.  The  huge  mirrors  reflected  the  scene; 
the  women  concealing  their  boredom  behind  their  fans,  the  young 
ladies  whispering  with  their  sweethearts,  and  others,  with  liter- 
ary pretensions,  stretching  out  their  necks,  paying  eager  at- 
tention. The  men,  standing  around  the  poet  in  a  compact  cir- 
cle, with  little  flags  or  white  ribbons  in  their  buttonholes, 
showed  their  ennui  plainly  on  their  faces.  Meanwhile  the 
poet,  beside  the  balcony,  with  the  light  full  upon  him,  the  red 
of  a  bloodshot  eye  showing  from  under  his  lowered  eyelid,  waved 
his  arms  up  and  down  and  staggered  to  and  fro  like  a  man 
swaying  in  a  boat.  At  last  he  came  to  the  end : 

May  the  song  of  my  lyre,  when  comes  the  end, 

Break   at   the   side    of   the   eternal    Sphinx,    which    gazes,    gazes,    gazes. 

And  in  the  Nubian  sand,  which  stretch  like  a  white  dream, 

I    fain   would   be   the   eternal   sweetheart   of   the   unviolated   Sphinx ! 

The  salon  resounded  with  applause  that  was  deadened  by 
gloves;  the  merry  noise  of  footsteps  animated  conversations  and 
happy  laughter  was  heard  anew,  and  the  orchestra  soon  burst 
into  another  tune. 

Landaburo  and  his  friends  continued  their  interrupted  pro- 
gress toward  the  dining-room.  At  last  they  reached  the  door 


THE  ELM  AND  THE  IVY  165 

from  where,  behind  a  dense  crowd  of  guests,  they  could  make 
out  the  huge  banquet  table  laden  with  food  and  wines.  The 
waiters  were  bustling  about,  raising  their  arms  and  distributing 
plates  that  were  seized  from  them  by  the  guests. 

Ladies  and  gentlemen,  elbow  to  elbow,  were  carving  and 
drinking  with  great  difficulty;  behind  them  stood  a  second 
row,  awaiting  the  moment  to  fill  the  vacated  chairs,  and  in  the 
meantime  intercepting  bits  of  pastry,  raisins,  a  cup  of  bouillon, 
which  were  tremblingly  passed  over  the  heads  of  the  diners 
amid  cries  of  terror,  at  times  falling  in  the  shape  of  dew 
upon  the  clothes  of  the  guests.  Behind  was  yet  a  third  row, 
which  entertained  itself  by  seeing  and  hearing  from  afar 
the  crunching  of  food,  the  stir  of  the  waiters,  the  popping  of 
champagne  corks,  the  clatter  of  plates  and  glasses. 

Landaburo  and  his  friends  made  their  way  to  the  third  row, — 
the  row  of  aspirants.  After  a  long  wait  they  finally  got  an 
obliging  fellow  to  bring  them  some  plates,  after  which  they 
received  a  few  slices  of  cold  meat;  a  half  hour  later  came  a 
knife,  somewhat  later  a  fork.  Provided  now  with  these,  they 
remained  standing,  gazing  at  one  another  helplessly,  unable  to 
cut  the  food  with  the  plates  in  their  hands.  Enviously  they 
observed  Sanchez  Mendez  at  the  other  end,  pressed  tightly 
against  the  table,  eating  the  various  foods  in  leisurely  fashion, 
sipping  down  his  wine,  smacking  his  lips,  putting  down  the 
glass,  raising  the  menu  close  to  his  eyes,  that  he  might  dis- 
cover what  it  was  he  had  been  so  conscientiously  swallow- 
ing. 

Into  the  dining-room  came  the  unwearying  measures  of  the 
waltz,  and  the  dense,  heated  atmosphere  was  filled  with  shouts : 

"  Jacinto,  more  of  that  turkey." 

"  Champagne  here!  " 

"Pedro!     What's  become  of  my  cold  meat?" 

"  Some  more  tarts !  " 

"Let's  see;  let's  see.  A  little  red  wine  .  .  .  but  Chateau 
Lafitte.  .  .  .  None  of  that  Catalonian  stuff  for  me." 

"Sandwiches!  " 

"  A  cup  of  bouillon." 

"Ow!     My  frock  coat!  " 

In  the  corridor  there  had  formed  two  opposing  currents, — 
those  who  were  on  their  way  to  the  dining-room,  famished,  and 


166  PAX 

those  who  were  returning  to  the  salons  with  sated  appetites  and 
in  high  spirits.  At  last  Landaburo  and  his  friends  were  able 
to  advance  to  the  second  row,  then  to  the  first,  close  to  the 
table,  among  a  group  of  merchants. 

"  I  prefer  red  wine,"  said  a  thin  fellow  with  a  watery  look 
and  a  sickly  voice.  "  My  dyspepsia  allows  me  no  other  kind. 
.  .  .  Bordeaux  costs  three  hundred  francs  per  cask.  ..." 

Another  merchant  with  bulging  cheeks  and  a  paunch  that 
prevented  his  close  approach  to  the  table,  replied: 

"  Then  you,  with  your  dyspepsia,  ought  to  be  happy  to  see 
that  the  duties  on  red  wine  have  come  down." 

"  No,  because  the  rest  have  gone  up.  Manchester  articles 
have  risen;  you  can't  import  them  any  more.  .  .  .  Business  is 
ruined,  dead." 

"  Not  so  bad  at  all  that,"  answered  the  heavy-paunched 
capitalist.  "  If  this  canalization  project  goes  through,  this  na- 
tion will  be  saved  just  like  Argentina;  river  freight  costs  have 
gone  down  a  great  deal  already,  with  the  gradual  acceleration 
of  navigation.  .  .  .  Just  reckon  for  yourselves  what  will  hap- 
pen when  Bellegarde  succeeds  in  making  the  river  navigable  for 
vessels  of  great  draught.  .  .  ..  Let's  wait.  ...  I  myself  at  first 
thought  that  this  enterprise,  like  so  many  others,  was  a  farce. 
.  .  .  No,  sir,  it  means  business  and  it'll  prove  a  universal  bene- 
fit. ...  Give  us  four  years  of  peace  and  the  river  will  be 
canalized." 

General  Ronderos,  who  through  pressure  of  affairs  had 
not  been  able  to  attend  the  ceremony  or  the  early  part  of  the 
banquet,  now  appeared  in  the  dining-room  in  company  of 
Montellano  and  a  few  friends.  He  was  surrounded  and  re- 
ceived with  all  honors;  glasses  were  raised  to  his  health. 

Karlonoff,  who  had  made  peace  with  Montellano  (who  be- 
lieved that  Ronderos'  stock  was  rising  and  that  his  prestige 
was  secure),  cried  out: 

"  Here's  to  our  next  president!  " 

From  one  end  of  the  table  to  the  other  the  toast  was  re- 
ceived with  great  applause  and  all  glasses  were  raised. 

"  To  our  next  president!  " 

Landaburo  and  Sanchez  Mendez  exchanged  glances,  replaced 
their  glasses  upon  the  table  and  made  a  face  as  if  they  had 
swallowed  vinegar. 


THE  ELM  AND  THE  IVY  167 

General  Ronderos,  after  thanking  the  guests  heartily,  utter- 
ing a  few  compliments  to  the  women  and  exchanging  a  few  jests 
with  his  friends,  withdrew. 

Landaburo,  turning  to  the  group  of  merchants,  which  was 
momentarily  growing  larger,  now  raised  his  glass  in  a  toast: 

"  Here's  to  the  men  of  toil  who  live  from  and  for  industry. 
I,  too,  am  a  working  man.  My  greatest  ambition  would  have 
been  to  be  an  obscure  farm-hand.  .  .  .  You  must  have  seen  my 
famous  editorial  called  '  Make  Way  For  Labor,'  in  favor  of  the 
ruling  classes.  ...  If  I  have  been  a  journalist,  a  tribune  and 
a  fighter,  I  owe  it  more  to  certain  persecution  — "  and  with  the 
tip  of  his  mustache  he  pointed  to  the  door  by  which  Ronderos 
had  left  — "  than  to  any  innate  gift  for  politics.  .  .  .  Like 
Moliere's  '  Doctor  Despite  Himself,'  I  have  become  a  political 
celebrity  against  my  will.  ..." 

But  little  attention  was  paid  to  Landaburo.  He  sat  down, 
and  then,  getting  up  again  he  continued,  facing  the  merchants' 
group: 

"  I  have  been  called  a  Jacobin,  an  anarchist,  in  the  papers. 
.  .  .  But  am  I  really  of  that  type?  .  .  .  The  ambitious  seeker 
must  lie,  pretend,  vacillate,  fawn  upon  the  powerful  and  adulate 
everybody.  .  .  .  Can  you  not  see  that  I  am  a  man  of  some 
literary  taste,  who  is  acquainted  moreover  with  commerce  and 
agriculture?  " 

"  I  agree,  I  agree,"  answered  the  dyspeptic  merchant  quickly, 
as  if  fearing  an  enforced  loan. 

The  hours  scurried  happily  by.  In  the  salons  the  curtains 
allowed  some  of  the  afternoon  light  to  filter  into  the  room;  this 
light,  however,  was  from  time  to  time  extinguished  when  the 
rainstorm,  blown  by  the  wind,  came  down  from  Monserrate  in 
powerful  gusts,  slapping  against  the  window-panes.  Then  the 
sun  would  reappear  and,  breaking  in  the  prisms  of  the  chande- 
lier, would  lavish  rainbow  hues  upon  the  polished  doors. 

The  crowd,  in  a  kaleidoscopic  whirl  of  colors,  was  strolling 
about  the  gallery,  through  the  corridors,  across  the  spacious 
salons,  amid  the  swish  of  silk;  all  cheeks  were  glowing,  all 
eyes  sparkled.  The  dancing  continued  without  let-up, —  qua- 
drilles, polkas,  waltzes.  .  .  .  The  orchestra's  notes  sounded  in- 
citing, turbulent;  when  for  a  moment  it  was  silent,  there  would 
arise  the  loud  din  of  footsteps,  conversations,  laughter,  brim- 


168  PAX 

ming  with  joy.  A  warm  wave  of  perfume  seemed  to  intoxi- 
cate everybody. 

In  Montellano's  office,  which  was  clouded  with  cigar  smoke, 
there  was  much  drinking;  flasks  of  brandy  and  whiskey  were 
quickly  drained;  boxes  of  Havana  cigars  had  been  emptied 
and  re-filled  several  times.  Intimacy,  confidence,  a  desire  to 
talk,  were  getting  the  better  of  the  merchants  and  the  capital- 
ists, in  whose  midst  thundered  Montellano's  voice. 

"  You  may  have  been  surprised  at  the  fact  that  this  wed- 
ding is  celebrated  in  my  house,  which  is  not  the  custom  .  .  . 
according  to  what  I'm  told.  .  .  .  But  Aura's  house  is  so 
small  .  .  .  and  we  wanted  to  have  a  big  time  ...  a  feast 
that  costs  three  thousand  dollars  in  American  gold,  my 
friends." 

The  capitalists  and  the  rich  merchants,  generally  self-guarded, 
were  gradually  opening  their  souls  with  great  precaution,  just 
as  they  opened  their  safes,  and  permitted  a  glimpse  of  their 
projects,  their  hopes,  their  ambitions.  Amid  the  strains  of  the 
distant  music,  guffaws,  slaps  upon  the  shoulder  or  the  stomach, 
amid  the  champagne,  the  -brandy  and  the  clinking  of  the 
glasses,  there  burst  in  the  air,  like  fireworks,  phrases  that 
possessed  for  these  men  a  sonority,  a  fascination  and  a  poesy 
that  were  simply  ineffable. 

"  A  rise  in  coffee." 

"  Weak  market." 

"  Have  you  heard  that  Martin  Brothers  have  gone  into 
bankruptcy?  " 

"  Quotations  from  Costa  Rica  and  Guatemala." 

"  Ground  coffee  for  exportation." 

"  Twenty  per  cent,  discount." 

"  One  hundred-count  baize." 

"  Canalization  shares." 

Dona  Aura,  assuming  her  role  as  lady  of  the  house,  did  the 
honors  most  ostentatiously,  scurried  everywhere  hunting  up 
partners  for  the  young  ladies,  saying  a  word  here,  dropping 
a  literary  phrase  there,  seeking  gallants  to  take  elderly  ma- 
trons to  the  dining-room.  Her  face  lit  up  every  time  she  came 
across  Bellegarde,  and  she  would  raise  her  voice  so  as  to  be 
heard  by  all: 


THE  ELM  AND  THE  IVY  169 

"  My  dear  Count,  you've  taken  nothing." 

"  My  dear  Count,  what  are  you  telling  there?  " 

"  My  dear  Count,  won't  you  give  me  your  arm?  " 

"Would  you  believe  it,  Count?  I'm  stifling  in  this  coun- 
try. .  .  .  I'm  so  anxious  to  set  foot  upon  the  soil  of  your  na- 
tive land, —  the  country  that  gave  the  world  George  Sand,  Anais 
de  Segalais,  Madame  de  Stael,  Madame  Craven.  .  .  .  Those 
virile  women  lived  by  their  pen.  .  .  .  That's  possible  over  yon- 
der. .  .  .  Over  there  a  woman  may  be  a  man  of  letters." 

Ines,  in  a  corner,  surrounded  by  her  admirers,  was  main- 
taining a  rapid-fire  conversation  with  them.  Roberto  domin- 
ated the  group, —  held  it  under  the  spell  of  his  versatile  tongue, 
now  concise,  now  sparkling,  and  at  times  mordant,  bitter.  Bel- 
legarde,  falling  more  and  more  in  love  every  moment,  had  im- 
posed the  most  rigorous  reserve  upon  himself;  he  did  not  care 
to  break  the  friendship  of  the  two  families, —  to  put  himself 
in  the  way  of  Roberto's  happiness,  to  add  to  the  burden  of  Dona 
Ana's  worries.  But,  despite  his  great  will-power,  he  would 
weaken  now  and  then,  and,  as  in  the  theater,  on  the  night  that 
they  gave  Werther,  he  would  drop  into  Ines's  ear  a  phrase,  an 
allusion  that  revealed  his  hidden  passion.  Nevertheless,  he  did 
not  think  that  he  was  obliged  to  deprive  himself  of  the  pleasure 
of  conversing  with  Ines,  of  admiring  her  thoughtful,  caressing 
eyes,  her  proud  features,  which  were  ennobled  by  a  glow  of 
kindness  and  illuminated  by  a  look  of  intelligence. 

Landaburo  drew  near. 

"  Roberto,  let's  have  a  recitation.  .  .  .  May  I  lead  you  to 
the  piano,  Sefiorita  Ines?  " 

They  excused  themselves. 

"  Sefior  Bellegarde,  they  tell  me  that  you're  a  fine  musician, 
• —  a  great  pianist.  ...  I  know  a  bit  of  music  myself ;  I  un- 
derstand harmony  and  counterpoint,  although  I  can't  play  any 
instrument  at  all.  I  can  hardly  blow  a  few  notes  on  the 
bugle, —  the  most  important  calls.  .  .  .  Won't  you  favor  us, 
Sefior  Count?  ...  I  come  as  ambassador  of  the  lady  of  the 
house,  Dona  Aura  del  Campo  de  Montellano." 

"  As  ambassador?  "  said  Roberto.  "  In  1815  Canova  came  to 
Paris  to  claim  the  paintings  that  Napoleon  had  taken  off  with 
him  from  the  Vatican.  *  I  come  as  ambassador  from  the  Holy 


170  PAX 

See.' — '  As   a  packer,   you   mean,'   was   Talleyrand's  reply." 1 

Landaburo  withdrew  in  disgust,  to  fulfil  another  mission. 

Alcon,  who  had  left  Dolores  free  to  dance  with  some  of  the 
young  men,  was  filled  with  new  courage  and  made  up  his  mind 
that  he  would-  see  the  matter  through  this  time.  He  took  her 
arm  again  and  they  resumed  their  endless  strolling.  She  did 
her  best  to  hide  her  displeasure,  her  disappointment,  the  down- 
fall of  her  hopes,  and  pretended  animation,  joy,  an  explosion 
of  contentment.  Alcon,  seeing  her  in  this  mood,  believed  him- 
self already  the  victor;  doubtless  Dolores  was  so  happy  because 
she  was  with  him.  With  his  classic  phrases  and  his  exposure 
of  Roberto  he  had  succeeded  in  softening  the  flint  of  that  heart, 
—  in  bending  her  will  toward  him. 

But  when  they  passed  the  room  in  which  Roberto  was,  he 
could  detect  Dolores'  bitterness  from  the  tone  of  her  voice, 
the  tightening  of  her  fingers  about  a  ribbon,  the  feverish  glint 
of  her  eyes. 

What  irritated  her  most  was  to  see  Alcon's  face  so  near, 
flushed  with  the  pleasant  anticipation  of  triumph, —  that  false 
smile,  that  curved  nose,  those  eyes  that  were  like  the  eyes  of 
a  bird  of  prey  about  to  take  her  into  its  talons  and  crush 
her. 

"  Seiiorita,"  said  Landaburo,  "  as  the  ambassador  of  your 
new  mother,  I  come  to  beg  you  to  enchant  us  with  your 
voice." 

She  hesitated,  but  so  anxious  was  she  to  get  rid  of  Alcon, 
to  free  herself  from  his  clutches,  that  she  took  the  ambassador's 
arm. 

"  Carmen.  ...  I  am  charged  with  begging  you  to  sing  that 
aria  from  Carmen." 

For  a  moment  she  was  on  the  verge  of  refusing;  she  felt  a 
strange  oppression,  a  repugnance  for  that  song  so  full  of  pas- 
sion, of  such  sparkling  joy,  which  she  had  been  practicing 
for  so  many  mornings,  while  from  the  patio  came  the  murmur 
of  the  fountain  and  from  the  nearby  office  the  voice  of  Roberto. 
.  .  .  Sing?  .  .  .  Yes,  she  would  sing,  she  would  master  her- 
self, she  would  flaunt  a  bold  happiness  before  all,  the  joy  of  a 
carefree  heart.  As  she  drew  near  to  the  piano  she  feared  lest 

1  The  pun,  in  the  original,  is  upon  the  Spanish  words  "  embajador " 
(ambassador),  and  "empacador"  (packer). 


THE  ELM  AND  THE  IVY  171 

her  strength  abandon  her, —  lest  she  collapse.  Her  temples 
pounded  so,  and  there  was  a  buzzing  in  her  ears;  her  blood 
was  so  hot  that  it  burned  her  cheeks.  .  .  .  She  forgot  the 
words  and  the  music.  But  another  access  of  determination 
brought  back  her  control,  and  with  a  supreme  effort  she  gave 
the  signal  to  the  orchestra.  Sustained  by  the  opening  chords, 
she  began  in  an  uncertain  voice: 

Quand  je  vous  aimerai,   ma   foi   je  ne   sais  pas. 
Peut-etre  jamais,  peut-etre  demain. 
Mais  pas  aujourd'hui,  c'est  certain. 

Roberto  was  astonished  to  note  that  this  playful  melody 
in  which  the  clicking  of  the  castanets  could  be  divined,  and 
which  Dolores  used  to  repeat  every  morning  without  any  life 
or  significance,  was  now  being  filled  with  a  personal  feeling, 
with  life,  with  fiery  spirit,  and  he  was  overcome  by  a  deep 
emotion, —  the  contagion  of  powerful  feelings,  of  irrepressible 
impulses. 

Dolores  sang  on: 

L'amour  est  un  oiseau  rebelle 
Que  nul  ne   peut   apprivoiser; 
S'il   lui   convient   de  refuser 
Rien   n'y   fait  menace  ou  priere. 

L'un   parle   bien,    1'autre   se   tait, 
Est  c'est  1'autre  que  je  prefere, 
II  n'a  rien  dit,  mais  il  me  plait. 

The  hearers  were  electrified;  the  song  penetrated  their  hearts 
as  if  by  some  mysterious  wave,  and  stirred  them  deeply. 

Roberto,  motionless,  pale,  listened  to  her  in  a  sort  of  stupor. 
Dolores'  voice,  which  still  needed  much  training,  with  its 
rough  accent  and  its  harsh  timbre  managed  despite  all  to  im 
part  to  the  melody  an  element  of  ineffable  sincerity.  This 
wanton  music  was  dominated  by  notes  of  dejection,  inflexions 
of  bitterness, —  the  tear  stifled  behind  the  loud  laugh,  the  sin- 
ister threat  of  jealousy.  It  was  a  love  that  explodes,  that 
throbs,  that  infects, —  fascinating,  dominating  passion. 

L'amour  est  enfant  de  Boheme 
II  n'a  jamais  connu  de  loi; 
Si  tu  ne  m'aimes  pas,  je  t'aime, 
Si  je  t'aime,  prends  garde  a  toi. 


172  PAX 

Despite  the  intense  admiration  aroused  by  the  song,  the 
crowd  of  hearers  remained  silent ;  it  was  overpowered,  paralyzed 
by  surprise,  stupefaction,  the  shudder  of  enthusiasm. 

Bellegarde  watched  Roberto  closely,  saw  how  his  eyes  grew 
clear  and  flamed  up  with  extraordinary  light,  and  in  the  intui- 
tion of  such  supreme  moments  he  understood  that  his  friend's 
heart  was  bounding  with  passion  for  Dolores,  that  Roberto 
was  conquered.  Now  he  would  be  free;  he  would  hesitate  no 
longer,  would  feel  the  need  of  delicacy  no  more;  the  obstacle  to 
his  happiness  had  vanished.  Ines  cast  a  furtive  glance  at  her 
cousin;  across  her  jessamine  forehead  passed  a  shadow,  but  al- 
most at  once  she  regained  her  attitude  of  gentle  pride. 

Alcon,  with  a  red  pate  and  flashing  eyes,  turned  to  Dolores; 
without  a  doubt  it  was  he  who  had  inspired  this  sincere  passion; 
this  impassioned  song,  this  penetrating  voice,  this  eloquent 
music, —  all  spelled  his  triumph.  Dolores  was  his,  and  with 
her  came  the  invincible  prestige  of  millions. 

Her  black,  ardent  eyes  fell  upon  Roberto,  who  was  also  at 
her  side;  Lola's  face  lit  up  with  an  expression  of  happiness  too 
deep  for  words;  unhesitatingly  she  leaned  upon  the  young 
man's  arm  and  amid  the  thunderous  applause  of  the  specta- 
tors, who  had  at  last  awakened  from  their  stupor,  they  crossed 
the  salons  and  went  off  together.  Dolores  felt  that  the  long- 
waited- for  moment  had  come, —  that  her  fate  was  to  be  decided. 

"Dolores!  .  .  ." 

Radiant  with  happiness  she  turned  her  head;  the  afternoon 
sun  fell  full  upon  her  face. 

The  ardent,  passionate  word  was  there;  it  bourgeoned  in  Ro- 
berto's bosom  like  a  flame,  rose  in  his  throat,  trembled  upon  his 
lips;  but  he  noticed  her  large  diamonds,  the  loud  colors  of  her 
dress,  her  noisy  manner,  her  air  of  triumph,  not  untainted  by  a 
certain  vulgarity  .  .  .  the  cinnamon  luster  of  her  jet  black  hair, 
those  large,  stubby  hands, —  the  rapacious  hands  of  Montel- 
lano.  .  .  .  And  the  sentence  died  on  his  lips;  he  slipped  his 
arm  out  of  hers  and  bowed  coldly;  she  entered  her  room. 

L'amour  est  enfant  de  Boheme, 
II  n'a  jamais  connu  de  loi. 

Love  is  a  child  of  Bohemia 

That  has  known  neither  God  nor  law.  7 


SLEEPLESSNESS  173 

The  orchestra  continued  to  play;  it  repeated  the  snappy,  wan- 
ton rhythm  in  which  could  be  divined  the  click  of  the  castanets. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

SLEEPLESSNESS 

DOLORES,  on  leaving  the  arms  of  Roberto,  crossed  the  dress- 
ing-room, passed  through  two  drawing-rooms,  came  to  her  own 
room,  and  locked  the  door,  meaning  to  be  by  herself  in  her 
indignation,  her  sadness.  She  felt  exhausted,  and  with  closed 
eyes,  without  gazing,  without  thinking,  she  let  her  arms  drop 
listlessly  down  her  sides.  All  her  vital  forces,  all  her  blood 
coursed  stormily  in  her  breast,  in  her  heart. 

Through  the  walls  and  the  curtains  there  came  to  her  the 
notes  of  the  flutes,  the  sobbing  of  the  violins,  the  solemn  tones 
of  the  bass  viols,  and  these  were  mingled  with  the  flappings  of 
the  breeze,  the  whistling  of  the  wind  through  crevices.  How 
clear  and  distinct  had  this  music  been  in  the  bracing  atmosphere 
of  the  morning,  during  those  hours  of  hope,  announcing  a  day  of 
rejoicing!  But  now  it  was  already  a  tiresome  tune,  one  which 
the  musicians  performed  upon  worn-out  strings;  one  which 
dragged  itself  along  with  accents  of  weariness,  with  languor, 
sounding  in  these  rooms  where  the  last  guests  were  still  whirling 
amid  dead  flowers  and  withered  wreaths.  At  last  all  these 
noises  which  hurt  her  head  ceased,  noises  which  hammered  upon 
her  nerves  precisely  as  the  strings  of  the  piano  had  been  ham- 
mered upon  for  hours.  In  the  drawing-rooms  the  murmur  of 
voices  and  the  din  of  footsteps  ceased  at  last.  In  the  street 
could  be  heard  the  slamming  of  house-doors,  the  rattle  of 
coaches  and  the  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs  that  was  lost  finally  in 
the  distance.  Thereupon  might  still  be  dimly  distinguished 
footsteps  of  some  solitary  passers-by,  the  shouts  of  a  servant 
or  two,  the  closing  of  one  gate  after  another,  and  then  nothing 
but  a  general  silence,  pierced  now  and  again  by  one  of  those 
nocturnal  noises  that  seem  a  part  of  the  night  itself,  and  the 
melancholy  of  which  entered  her  very  soul.  And  in  the  midst 
of  this  lull,  immersed  in  the  freshness  of  the  night  air,  there 


174  PAX 

arose  before  the  eyes  of  Dolores,  as  though  to  console  her  in  her 
solitude,  the  image  of  her  mother. 

And  with  this  thought  the  fictitious  value  of  her  pride,  the 
assumed  indifference  that  had  sustained  her,  disappeared  like  a 
flash.  There  came  the  crisis;  she  burst  into  tears,  and  she 
spread  out  her  arms  into  the  void  in  search  of  her  mother. 
With  how  much  confidence,  her  head  hidden  in  her  mother's 
lap,  would  her  grief  have  been  assuaged!  How  much  she 
lacked  those  passionate  kisses,  those  words  of  endearment,  those 
caresses.  Never  before  had  she  understood  so  keenly  as  at  this 
very  instant  her  orphaned  condition;  never  before  had  she  felt 
herself  so  abandoned.  What  horror,  what  repugnance  did  she 
feel  just  then  for  Dona  Aura,  who  only  that  morning  had 
usurped  the  place  of  her  own  mother.  .  .  .  And  in  her  fevered 
brain  she  saw  two  abhorred  faces:  Dona  Aura  and  Ines.  The 
same  Ines  who  had  crossed  her  path,  who  snatched  at  her  hap- 
piness. Ah !  But  at  least  she  would  humiliate  her,  would  pay 
her  score  off  with  interest,  insult  for  insult,  shame  for  shame. 

Excitedly  she  moved  about  the  room,  wringing  her  hands, 
while  obscure  instincts  awoke  in  her,  until  then  hidden  away  in 
remote  corners  of  her  soul,  instincts  which  now  in  these  throes 
of  pain  rose  to  the  surface,  causing  her  to  throb  with  confused 
sentiments  of  rage,  wrath,  sadness. 

And  to  rid  herself  of  these  odious  images  she  raised  her  hands 
to  her  eyes  and  let  the  scenes  of  that  day  pass  before  them:  the 
departure  for  the  church,  the  altar,  the  huge  wax  tapers,  the  rays 
of  the  sun  falling  athwart  the  clouds  of  incense,  the  rolling  of  a 
coach  on  the  square  outside,  a  presentiment  which  made  her 
shudder,  the  rustling  of  silk,  .  .  .  Ines,  and,  at  her  side,  Ro- 
berto. .  .  .  Afterwards,  the  house,  the  drawing-rooms,  the  whirl 
of  the  waltz,  ...  the  dressing-room,  .  .  .  again  Ines,  arriving 
in  the  midst  of  a  murmur  of  homage.  The  kiss  .  .  .  those 
cool  lips,  soft  as  rose  petals  which  one  scarcely  feels  on  the 
cheek.  .  .  .  Alcon,  his  bald  head,  his  false  smile,  his  rapacious 
look.  .  .  .  And  then,  with  even  greater  intensity,  causing  her  a 
feeling  of  oppression,  a  stab  of  exquisite  pain  in  the  heart,  the 
song  from  Carmen.  Roberto,  transfigured,  his  eyes  shining  with 
intense  passion,  with  trembling  lips  about  to  stammer:  "Do- 
lores! "...  Again,  his  coldness,  the  change,  the  glance  which 
dies  out,  the  disillusion  reflected  in  the  pupils  of  his  eyes.  .  .  . 


SLEEPLESSNESS  175 

"Heavens,  why?  What  have  I  about  me  to  make  him  alter 
like  that?" 

A  flash  of  lightning  flooded  the  apartment,  and  forming  an 
echo  to  her  grief,  a  thunderclap  reverberated  through  the  chain 
of  mountains. 

In  that  hour  of  disillusionment,  of  her  first  great  sorrow, 
when  the  tears  issued  out  of  her  burning  eyelids,  without  at- 
tempting to  pierce  the  future  she  only  thought  of  the  past.  She 
remembered  her  childhood  and,  mingled  with  that,  as  always, 
was  the  memory  of  her  mother.  .  .  .  She  saw  the  estate  of  La 
Danta,  her  existence  amidst  the  scenes  of  rude  Nature,  the  sugar- 
mill.  She  thought  of  her  constant  longing  to  see  the  capital,  and 
of  her  departure,  on  a  day  of  hope,  of  the  journey.  .  .  .  She 
recalled  the  ascent  of  the  steep  rocks  of  El  Consuelo,  ...  the 
blue  butterfly.  .  .  .  How  the  unknown  had  approached  her,  and 
the  conversation  that  morning  which  enwrapped  them  in  the 
warm  vapors  in  the  ravine  in  front  of  that  immensity  filled  with 
light,  like  a  new  horizon  displaying  an  infinitude  of  happiness. 
.  .  .  Of  the  rosebush,  too,  she  thought  musingly,  and  of  the  rain 
of  white  petals  that  covered  them  like  a  shower  of  orange  blos- 
soms,—  her  bridal  veil. 

A  tense  darkness  invaded  the  bedchamber  of  Dolores,  who 
rose  and  went  to  place  her  forehead  against  the  window  panes, 
through  which  she  looked  down  into  the  empty  street  and  up  to 
the  sky  where  no  star  gleamed.  Thick  drops  began  to  fall, 
beating  against  the  glass  and  trickling  down  like  tears.  Anew 
a  flash  of  lightning,  blinding  her,  illuminated  the  whole  row  of 
house  fronts  with  a  tremendous  reverberation,  and  once  more 
everything  was  buried  in  inky  blackness.  Another  flash,  and 
with  eyes  dilated  with  fright  she  saw  again  sharply  outlined 
against  a  horizon  all  afire  the  shapes  of  the  houses,  the  tower 
of  a  church,  while  the  thunder  made  the  panes  tremble. 

The  storm  retreated  more  and  more  in  the  distance;  far  away 
the  rumblings  of  thunder  were  now  wandering  through  the  ridge 
of  the  mountains,  until  at  last  the  night  became  once  again  still. 

She  then  felt  fatigue  overwhelming  her,  an  acute  pain  in  the 
eyes  and  forehead,  as  though  her  head  would  burst.  She  had  a 
feeling  of  oppression,  and  a  vehement  desire  to  destroy,  to  dis- 
appear, to  die  even  seized  her,  and  again  the  tears  fell  down  her 
cheeks,  crept  around  the  curve  of  her  chin. 


176  PAX 

Fatigue  and  sorrow  finally  exhausted  her,  and  she  began  to 
slumber.  But  the  coolness  of  early  morning  awoke  her.  She 
wrapped  herself  in  the  darkness,  full  of  fear,  without  remem- 
bering where  she  was,  shivering  with  the  cold  and  with  the  dim 
consciousness  of  nursing  a  confused  and  vague  grief.  From 
time  to  time  falling  objects  outside  horrified  her,  and  she  drew 
near  the  window  to  peep  out.  It  had  cleared,  and  the  silence  of 
the  grave  reigned  in  the  city,  interrupted  only  by  the  monoto- 
nous gurgling  of  the  gutters.  In  the  varying  shadows  stood  out 
the  row  of  house  fronts,  lit  up  at  intervals  by  the  pale  rays  of 
the  electric  lamps.  In  the  background,  against  an  atmosphere 
of  perfect  stillness  in  which  the  lethargy  of  many  thousands 
might  be  felt,  there  rose  heavily  the  backs  of  the  Guadalupe  and 
Monserrate;  but  farther  away,  through  the  opening  between  the 
two  mountains,  the  first  broad  bands  of  dawn  could  be  traced  in 
the  sky.  A  cat  walked  furtively  upon  a  roof,  arrived  in  front, 
made  sure  of  its  ground,  and  stood  with  its  outlines  clearly  and 
sharply  defined  on  the  sky-line.  Dolores  once  more  sought  the 
shelter  of  her  bed  and  fell  asleep  anew. 

The  solemn  voice  of  the  large  bell  in  the  cathedral  roused  her. 
She  opened  her  eyes  amidst  waves  of  brilliant  light  that  streamed 
in  through  the  curtains  and  the  blue  bed  hangings.  She  tried  to 
smile  as  usual  in  the  face  of  such  a  glad  splendor.  But  again 
she  was  assailed  by  a  vague  remembrance,  and  she  felt  the  keen 
pangs  of  overhanging  pain.  The  smile  died  on  her  lips. 

"  Ah,  if  only  .  .  ."  she  muttered. 

But  she  collected  herself.  Her  thought,  as  if  illuminated  by 
that  fresh  and  serene  light,  as  if  rested  by  repose,  brought  before 
her  in  perfect  order,  one  by  one,  the  impressions  of  the  preceding 
evening. 

The  far  clamor  of  the  pealing  bells  continued,  the  shrill 
sounds  of  vows  uttered,  the  noises  of  merriment.  She  glimpsed 
on  the  house  in  front,  bathed  already  in  sunlight,  the  festoons 
which  danced  in  the  gusts  of  the  breeze. 

"  Corpus  Christi  Day,"  she  mumbled,  "the  great  holiday!  " 

The  light,  the  booming  from  the  old  tower  close  by,  the  bustle 
coming  up  from  the  street,  spoke  to  her  of  rejoicing,  of  new  life, 
and  all  this  infused  her  with  new  courage,  woke  in  her  heredi- 
tary energy,  the  battling  instinct,  the  desire  to  conquer  and  to 
triumph. 


CORPUS  CHRISTI  DAY  177 


CHAPTER  XVII 

CORPUS   CHRISTI   DAY 

A  DELIGHTFUL  wind  sweeping  down  from  the  mountains  and 
taking  part  in  the  city's  holiday,  bore  on  its  wings  the  deafening 
clamor  of  a  hundred  church  bells,  the  crackling  of  the  sky- 
rockets, the  uproar  of  the  big  crowd  all  dressed  in  gala  attire, 
scattered  the  odors  of  laurel  and  fresh  mosses  and  formed  a 
symphony  of  colors,  shook  smartly  the  streamers  and  banderoles, 
fluttered  the  ribbons  of  the  altars,  agitated  the  festoons,  dandled 
the  thousands  of  small  baskets  of  flowers,  and  rustled  the  rich 
damask  stuffs  everywhere  displayed. 

Dolores,  who  wanted  to  move  about  and  shake  off  her  troubles, 
to  see  the  city  in  its  gala  mood,  went  out  in  company  with  Dona 
Aura,  and  the  two  soon  lost  themselves  in  the  multitude  which, 
overflowing  with  joy,  was  streaming  to  and  fro  in  the  streets 
adorned  for  the  feast  day  of  Corpus  Christi.  The  throng  de- 
nied along  and  around  the  corners,  avoiding  the  middle  of  the 
road  where  for  the  whole  length  and  breadth  of  each  thorough- 
fare were  hung  aloft  garlands  of  moss,  similar  in  their  vivid 
green  to  a  meadow  in  England,  and  bordered  with  fern  palms. 
The  green  ground  was  beautified  with  stars  and  arabesques  of 
purple  hue.  Up  and  down  the  road  and  joined  by  chains  of 
festoons,  had  been  erected  mastheads  crowned  by  banderoles 
and  garlands  that  likewise  swung,  rippled  and  tossed  in  the  air. 

Before  the  altars  in  the  streets,  already  covered  with  veils,  but 
behind  which  the  last  hammer  blows  still  sounded,  were  grouped 
people  in  their  Sunday  clothes.  On  the  scaffolds  some  workman 
lifted  the  veil  to  have  a  candelabra,  a  crown  handed  him.  Then 
the  crowd  would  break  out  in  an  ah !  of  astonishment  in  catching 
a  half  glimpse  of  the  artificial  temple  adorned  with  plush,  vel- 
vet, candelabras,  bunches  of  daisies. 

Above  the  crest  of  heads,  arms  are  raised  holding  crowns, 
pillars,  or  linen  strips  belonging  to  altars  not  yet  completed,  and 
baskets  filled  with  oranges,  candy,  cakes,  sugar-coated  apples. 
Rich  farmers  from  the  country  in  coats  of  a  past  fashion,  pushed 
on  by  the  human  wave,  are  raising  their  tanned  faces  and  are 
admiring  everything,  while  they  never  fail  to  decipher  with  care 


178  PAX 

the  inscriptions  on  the  stores  and  walls,  which  here  and  there 
announce  behind  curtains:  "  Extractions  without  pain,"  "  No- 
tary public,"  "Swiss  Watchmaker,"  "Notice!",  "  Vidaurre  & 
Villafane,  Commission  merchants,"  and  similar  things.  They 
listen  with  attention  to  the  street  vendors  at  the  corners,  and 
watch  carefully  the  distribution  of  shrubs  taken  from  near-by 
hills  that  are  to  be  used  in  embellishing  the  festival  by  contrib- 
uting the  latest  splendor  of  their  buds  and  branches. 

And  now  there  is  a  resumption  of  chimes  and  peals,  but  more 
solemn  and  sonorous,  and  the  immense  crowd  pours  through  the 
three  great  portals  into  the  cathedral.  Within  a  few  moments 
only  the  naves  are  filled,  and  clusters  of  men  and  women  are 
formed  all  around  the  pilasters,  while  even  the  lateral  chapels 
are  invaded.  So  are  the  nooks  in  the  whole  spacious  edifice, 
and  when  checked  the  overflow  is  squeezed  into  the  entrance  hall 
and  thence  floats  out  once  more  into  the  streets  where  new 
throngs  are  formed  at  the  corners. 

In  the  sacristy  were  stumbling  about  the  priests,  crossing 
themselves  with  great  zeal,  wearing  embroidered  capes,  the  aco- 
lytes clad  in  red,  the  vergers  in  robes  of  white  satin.  Several 
servants  held  armfuls  of  wax  tapers;  a  canon  tied  hurriedly 
his  golden  stole,  and  an  immense  group  of  gentlemen  in  full 
dress  were  taking  these  candles,  while  others  clutched  the  staff 
of  the  standards.  In  the  semi-obscurity  of  the  sacristy  the 
flames  of  the  tapers  began  to  shine.  The  archbishop,  sur- 
rounded by  his  cortege,  was  waiting  in  the  presbytery  beneath 
his  throne,  and  was  girt  with  surplice,  pallium,  and  miter. 

And  now  the  church  standards  began  to  wave  heavily  above 
all  these  heads.  Groups  were  forming  of  those  who  were  to 
bear  these  or  to  hold  the  cords.  Montellano  started  to  move 
away  with  one  of  the  standards.  At  his  right  Gonzalez  Mogol- 
lon  was  to  march,  and  the  latter  had  already  loosened  the  tassel 
and  was  rushing  about  the  whole  sacristy  and  getting  red  in 
the  face  shouting  orders.  Behind  him  were  Alejandro  and 
Roberto;  the  latter  was  pale  on  that  day,  with  a  peculiar  pallor, 
so  that  his  black  beard  and  the  dark  circles  under  his  eyes  were 
quite  prominent. 

They  had  been  waiting  in  vain  for  General  Ronderos  and 
Doctor  Alcon,  and  their  absence  had  been  noticed. 


CORPUS  CHRISTI  DAY  179 

Montellano  was  disturbed,  shook  his  head,  and  asked  in  a  low 
voice : 

"  Roberto,  how  is  it  that  the  Minister  has  not  come?  " 

"  He's  occupied  and  preoccupied,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  it,  my  dear  Roberto?  "  Mon- 
tellano, his  lips  dry  with  anxiety,  wanted  to  know,  adding: 
"  And  Doctor  Alcon?  Was  he  not  to  come?  Can  he  be  ill?  " 

"  Something  more  than  that,"  said  Roberto,  glad  to  worry 
Montellano.  "  He  has  resigned  or  they  will  make  him  resign." 

Montellano,  who  saw  his  influence  at  the  ministry  threatened, 
the  probability  of  immediate  payment  of  his  loan  looming,  the 
resolution  on  the  bonds  of  '48  involved,  felt  a  shock  of  alarm. 
He  opened  his  eyes  wide,  shuddered,  staggered  like  a  bull  re- 
ceiving the  thrust  of  the  sword  between  the  shoulder  blades, 
snorted  then  and  brandishing  his  standard  began  to  trample 
upon  the  bystanders.  He  knocked  down  a  number  of  acolytes 
on  the  stairs  of  the  sacristy,  entangled  himself  first  in  a  dal- 
matic, and  next  in  the  chains  of  the  censer,  and  amid  a  muttered 
chorus  of  maledictions  he  descended  to  the  nave  of  the  cathedral. 
There  he  penetrated  the  dense  crowd  and  pierced  his  path 
through  it  like  the  ram  of  a  battleship,  the  human  wave  all  about 
him  moving  stormily  during  this  charge.  Then  he  issued  into 
the  square,  took  breath,  found  out  where  he  was  precisely,  and 
then  launched  forward  towards  Alcon's  house  to  get  full  infor- 
mation regarding  the  sinister  news.  He  tried  to  make  his 
escape,  panting,  through  the  Calle  Real,  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion from  the  current,  through  the  very  center  of  the  road,  be- 
neath the  awning  of  greenery,  treading  upon  the  soft  carpet  of 
moss  that  extended  intact,  destroying  labor,  arabesques,  leaving 
behind  him  imprints  of  his  footsteps  as  huge  as  the  tracks  of  an 
elephant,  dragging  along  on  the  inside  of  his  dress-coat  bits  of 
wire  and  lichen  from  the  arches,  shavings,  scraps  of  paper, 
while  all  around  him  people  cried  out  in  protest,  in  wrath,  in 
dudgeon,  mingled  with  laughter,  from  sidewalk  to  sidewalk, 
from  windows  to  balconies: 

"Make  room!  " 

"  He  comes  from  the  bull-pen!  " 

"That  arch  over  there  has  tumbled  down!  Be  careful 
there!" 


i8o  PAX 

"Fire  in  the  cathedral!  " 

"The  Pope  is  dead!  " 

In  this  way  he  proceeded  two  blocks,  then  turned  to  the  left, 
towards  the  house  of  the  assistant  secretary. 

The  rockets  hurtled  about  in  the  air,  and  the  people  choking 
up  the  outer  hall  of  the  cathedral  began  to  leave  it,  forming  a 
slowly  moving",  living  cascade.  There  were  descending  the  road 
two  currents  of  color,  separated  by  two  threads  of  light.  The 
cross  of  the  episcopal  chapter  began  to  appear  in  the  distance, 
and  behind  it,  in  interminable  file,  came  the  colleges  in  their 
uniforms,  then  gentlemen  attired  formally  for  the  occasion,  the 
pupils  of  the  seminaries  who,  seen  from  afar,  with  their  peculiar 
garments  traced  two  large  white  fringes  upon  the  moss.  After 
them,  the  plumes  on  their  hats  fluttering  in  the  breeze,  followed 
the  generals  who  were  in  the  train  of  the  chief  of  state.  In  the 
very  center  there  was  to  be  seen  a  gorgeous  mass  of  dalmatics, 
stoles,  surplices,  priests'  hats,  gleaming  cloth  of  gold,  all  these 
brilliant  hues  and  rich  tissues  issuing  from  the  twilight  of  the 
cathedral  naves  into  the  intense  light  of  full  day,  where  they 
glittered  and  shone  wondrously.  The  snowy  rockets  fairly  daz- 
zled in  the  sun.  The  buckles  on  the  priestly  hats  of  one  group 
of  processionists  flared  out,  and  their  steps  died  away  upon  the 
rug  of  moss.  Again  they  turn  in  the  long  line,  huge  censers  are 
swung  ceaselessly,  and  at  intervals  light  cloudlets  of  fragrant 
incense  are  wafted  upwards.  Below  a  shower  of  flowers,  amidst 
perfumed  smoke  and  the  murmurings  of  psalms,  advances  slowly 
and  solemnly  the  canopy.  Under  its  shade  is  the  prelate  who 
offers  in  his  trembling  hands,  between  a  circle  of  diamonds,  the 
white  host  to  the  adoration  of  the  populace. 

In  a  perfect  satiety  of  colors  which  by  the  noon  sun  was 
turned  into  brilliant  rays  like  those  of  diamonds,  in  the  midst 
of  harsh  grinding  sounds  made  by  the  wheels,  the  clashing  of 
martial  music,  a  clamorous  enthusiasm,  appeared  the  heavy  carts 
bearing  living  illustrations  from  Bible  passages.  There  came 
spans  of  oxen  with  gilt  horns,  their  drivers  in  flaming  turbans. 
On  high,  amidst  groups  of  shaking  bushes  and  vivid  foliage, 
boys  were  to  be  seen  with  rosy  faces,  masked  to  show  fierce 
beards  of  ancient  warriors.  Scores  of  pretty  girls  adorned  with 
the  splendor  of  the  Orient,  their  bare  arms  and  necks  hung  with 
precious  jewels  whose  sparkle  was  reflected  by  the  delicate  skin. 


CORPUS  CHRISTI  DAY  181 

These  carts  passed  on,  tottering  under  their  burden,  sheaves  of 
wheat,  lions'  and  bears'  hides  decking  the  chief  actors;  linens 
and  cloths  in  stripes  of  blue,  red  and  yellow  everywhere,  lavish 
gold  foil,  fringes  of  brocade.  All  this  gleamed  in  the  bright 
sunshine.  And  there  they  were:  Ruth  with  her  ears  of  corn; 
David  with  his  harp  under  a  cloak  of  ermine,  the  high  priest 
with  his  miter  of  silver  and  a  display  of  emeralds  and  rubies, 
the  messengers  sent  .into  the  Promised  Land  bending  under  their 
burden  of  giant  bunches  of  grape.  Then  there  were  Judith, 
the  scimitar,  the  sumptuous  couch  of  Holofernes;  Mordecai, 
with  his  white  horse;  Esther,  Herodias,  Rebecca, —  in  short,  the 
whole  Orient,  its  whole  poetry,  the  grand  majesty  of  the  Bible. 

The  balconies  were  crowded  with  people,  faces  reddened  by 
the  heat,  a  wealth  of  dark  hair,  silvery  velvet,  parasols  which 
were  waved  industriously. 

During  the  procession  Gonzalez,  who  had  supervised  all  to 
the  slightest  detail,  while  the  music  sent  its  waves  of  sound  to 
the  extreme  end  of  the  line  of  march,  was  moving  about  gesticu- 
lating, making  signs  with  his  head,  with  his  arms,  his  bald  head 
burned  by  the  sun.  He  was  showing  the  various  features  of  it 
all  to  sight-seers,  using  his  burning  candle  to  demonstrate  with, 
drops  of  wax  falling  unawares  upon  smooth  dress-coats. 

"  You  see,"  he  was  saying,  "  though  a  simple  recruit  of  the 
good  cause,  I  always  feel  that  I  have  to  assist  in  everything,  and 
so  I  managed  to  place  this  cross  at  the  mouth  of  this  street.  .  .  . 
Only  look  here  at  this  bed  of  daisies!  And  here,  notice  how 
I've  gathered  the  Book  of  the  Seven  Seals.  .  .  .  The  letters 
there  stand  for  the  capital  sins,  and  these  I  have  put  where  they 
are  myself.  .  .  .  You  see  here  B.  C.  P.  C.  E.  O.  N.  .  .  .  Have 
you  never  read  the  Book  of  Revelations?  " 

The  balconies  at  Montellano's,  too,  were  jammed  with  people: 
wraps,  parasols,  all  sorts  of  faces  met  the  eye;  groups  placed  in 
a  motley  manner,  servants  who  shouted  and  stood  on  tiptoe  to  see 
better,  babies  that  were  crying  or  babbling,  and  all  this  hurly- 
burly,  this  multitude  that  was  suffocating  and  moving  about  in 
a  humming  like  that  of  a  bee-hive,  seemed  to  belong  to  the  mil- 
lionaire, at  least  according  to  an  inscription  visible  on  the  cen- 
ter balcony  and  which,  in  letters  of  bronzed  iron  that  clung  to 
the  iron  bars  proclaimed:  "  I  belong  to  Ramon  Montellano." 

Not  far  from  this,  on  an  ancient  balcony,  where  a  coverlet  of 


182  PAX 

damask  was  bellying  in  the  keen  air,  were  Dona  Ana  and  Dona 
Teresa,  and  seated  right  in  front  of  them,  Ines  and  Bellegarde. 
The  evening  preceding,  on  observing  that  Roberto  had  decided 
in  favor  of  Dolores,  the  Count  had  believed  himself  free.  And 
now  he  was  breaking  the  severe  silence  which  he  had  imposed 
on  himself.  Thus  he  was  able  to  show  Ines,  without  any  fur- 
ther reserve,  the  depths  of  his  heart.  Not  a  word  of  love  came 
over  his  lips,  but  he  conversed  with  her  familiarly,  in  a  deli- 
cious intimacy,  asking  her  for  details  respecting  national  cus- 
toms, national  festivals,  and  listening  with  close  attention  to 
Ines'  answers.  She  evidently  showed  herself  complaisant,  and 
indeed  seemed  to  have  awakened  from  her  dreams.  But  with- 
out parting  a  jot  from  her  amiable  pride,  with  that  habit  of 
silence  which  Roberto  had  noticed  and  remarked  upon,  she  sud- 
denly began  to  stammer.  In  taking  in  the  view  from  the  front 
balconies,  her  eyes  met  constantly  those  of  Dolores,  and  the 
latter  looked  fixedly  at  her,  passionately,  ardently.  And  Do- 
lores, seeing  the  couple,  was  visited  by  ideas  which  filled  her 
with  hope  and  relief.  "If  these  two  only  would  marry,"  she 
thought. 

At  the  office  of  Vidaurre  &  Villafane,  doors  ajar,  were  con- 
versing Doctor  Agtieros,  Landaburo,  Polanco,  and  Gacharnah. 

"  The  upright  people  are  joining  us,"  said  Polanco.  "  The 
peace  of  Warsaw  will  last." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  answered  Gacharnah  mysteriously.  "  I 
do  know  that  Alcon  is  writing  in  La  Integridad  against  Ron- 
deros." 

"  It  is  irritating,  this  spectacle  of  a  worthy  doctrine,"  said 
Landaburo,  "  like  that  of  the  distinguished  philosopher  of  Pales- 
tine, rendered  ridiculous  by  such  a  masquerade.  It  is  humili- 
ating that  the  Colombian  Guard,  contrary  to  the  military  spirit, 
must  go  to  form  a  chorus  to  these  Catholic  farces.  Doctor 
Agueros,  it  will  be  necessary  to  suspend  such  orgies  of  ultra- 
montane fanaticism  when  the  day  of  Revaluation  dawns,  and 
may  I  be  on  the  throne  by  that  time." 

"  Take  care,  my  dear  General,"  replied  the  physician,  "  for 
the  clergy  are  an  enemy  to  be  feared.  In  the  evolution  of  so- 
ciety it  takes  long  till  the  religious  microbe  will  disappear  from 
the!brain  of  the  masses,  a  microbe  which  produces  a  lymph,  a 
ferment  that  is  full  of  .  ,  ." 


CORPUS  CHRISTI  DAY  183 

"  He  is  dying,  he  is  dying,"  shouted  voices  outside.  "  Quick, 
a  doctor,"  and  Doctor  Agiieros  plunged  into  the  street  below. 

Roberto,  as  he  passed  with  his  standard  facing  the  balconies 
of  Montellano's  house  stopped  suddenly,  became  pale  as  death, 
and  the  expression  of  his  painfully  drawn  mouth  revealed  an 
intense  agony.  He  stretched  out  his  hands,  and  before  Ale- 
jandro was  able  to  support  him,  he  fell  senseless. 

Dolores  had  allowed  a  cry  to  escape  her,  and  heads  were 
raised  in  her  direction.  She  wanted  to  go  towards  the  uncon- 
scious man.  Ines  approached  Dona  Ana  and  betrayed  her 
anxiety  only  by  the  trembling  of  the  hand  which  she  had 
reached  out  to  the  cold  hand  of  the  old  lady,  who,  on  her  own 
part,  pierced  by  grief,  without  taking  a  step,  without  one  ges- 
ture, allowed  her  tears  to  run,  turned  her  gaze  towards  the  host, 
and  with  blanched  lips  whispered: 

"Oh,  Lord,  .  .  .  Thou,  Thou  who  once  didst  recall  to  life 
the  son  of  the  widow  ...  !  " 

Roberto  opened  his  eyes  and  with  a  supreme  effort  gained  his 
feet  once  more.  Staggering,  and  clutching  Alejandro's  arm,  he 
seized  the  cord  of  the  standard  anew,  and  then  said  with  a 
broken  voice: 

"  It  is  nothing.     Let  us  go  on!  " 

Doctor  Agiieros  shook  his  head  doubtfully,  pursed  his  lips, 
and  vouchsafed  one  of  his  smiles  of  self-sufficiency  and  mys- 
tery. Then  he  said  a  few  words  in  Frenchified  Latin  to  Ale- 
jandro. 

But  Roberto  answered:  "  No,  let  us  continue.  We  are  tak- 
ing part  in  a  public  function.  Let  us  go  on!  " 

And  he  himself  began  to  arrange  the  filing-off,  to  reorganize 
the  route  of  the  carts.  Moving  off  in  full  view  of  Dona  Ana, 
and  perceiving  her  face  to  show  a  deathly  pallor,  he  tried  to  say 
to  her  with  his  gaze  and  his  smile : 

"  I  already  am  feeling  well,  dearest  mother!  " 

In  front  of  the  Church  of  St.  Francis,  against  its  tower,  con- 
spicuous on  the  huge  blocks  of  stone,  was  raised  a  high  throne 
clothed  in  fine  scarlet,  with  ermine  to  its  back.  Beneath  its 
baldaquin  the  light  sparkled  prismatically  in  its  chandeliers,  in 
the  glass  pendants  of  its  candelabra.  The  wind  inflated  the 
pavilion,  shook  the  cloth  and  the  cords  that  held  it,  and  fretted 
about  the  veiling  and  the  loose  objects. 


184  PAX 

The  canopy  arrived  at  this  spot,  the  procession  halted,  and 
the  fanfares  ceased.  Doctor  Miranda  drew  near  the  prelate, 
mounted  next  the  velvet-covered  steps,  and  upon  a  pillar,  in  the 
rear  of  the  tabernacle,  he  deposited  the  reliquary.  All  knees 
bent,  every  head  bowed  in  reverence,  and  the  smoke  rose  from 
the  censers.  In  the  silence  of  a  whole  city  prostrated  on  the 
ground,  the  voice  of  the  prelate  rose,  and  next  a  hymn  was 
intoned  with  infinite  sweetness  by  a  chorus  of  childish  voices. 
The  hymn  ascended  and  was  finally  lost  in  the  blue  of  the  vault 
resplendent  with  light  and  sunshine. 

Above  the  sea  of  curved  backs  plainly  to  be  marked  were  the 
canopy,  the  neck  of  a  bass  viol,  the  written  scores  of  the  musi- 
cians, and  the  soft  plumes  on  the  Generals'  hats. 

The  immense  concourse  of  people  now  retraced  their  steps 
through  the  streets  on  their  way  back  to  the  Plaza  of  Bolivar. 
The  prelate  ascended  the  steps  of  the  cathedral's  forecourt,  and 
with  his  back  turned  to  the  church,  he  gazed  towards  the  west. 
The  committee  of  canons,  of  priests,  of  gentlemen,  grouped 
themselves  around  him.  The  symbolical  carts  arrived,  and  the 
military  drew  up  in  line.  The  different  strains  of  music 
blended.  The  enormous  throng  grew  black  on  the  plaza.  The 
sun  was  sinking.  With  its  last  splendors  it  caressed  the  bronze 
statue  of  the  Liberator,  flashed  across  the  groves  of  bayonets, 
illuminated  the  gaily  colored  group  of  the  picturesque  carts 
massed  in  the  center  of  it,  and  over  an  ocean  of  heads  it  set  afire 
an  aureole  of  glory,  the  golden  haze  of  early  evening. 

The  prelate  takes  one  step,  and  offers  the  reliquary  heaven- 
wards. A  tremendous  rattle  of  drums  runs  along  the  whole  line. 
The  French  horns  pierce  the  air  with  their  strident  note  which 
fills  the  whole  circumference.  The  military  presents  arms. 
The  multitude  prostrates  itself.  A  silence  of  expectation  and 
astonishment  reigns,  only  interrupted  by  the  flapping  of  some 
streamers  aloft,  far  up  on  top  of  the  tower.  The  sun  now 
slowly  disappears  below  the  horizon,  launches  a  last  ray  which 
kisses  the  foot  of  the  reliquary.  The  host,  amidst  all  this  splen- 
dor, is  being  lifted  up,  and  traces  slowly  a  cross  in  the  air. 


SACRIFICE  185 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

SACRIFICE 

BELLEGARDE  lived  in  a  villa  on  the  road  to  Chapinero.  One 
morning  he  went  very  early  to  Bogota  and  took  the  street  car  to 
return  immediately  to  his  dwelling,  where  he  meant  to  write  an 
important  letter  in  the  silence  of  the  country.  The  groves  and 
flower  beds,  a  light  mist,  the  rolling  of  coaches  and  carts,  the 
invigorating  cool  air,  all  recalled  to  him  his  own  country,  and 
the  spring  there.  He  was  reminded  of  some  of  those  mornings 
in  early  April  when  the  trees,  bare  but  the  night  before,  are 
suddenly  covered  with  young  shoots,  with  plump  burgeons,  and 
when  a  new  sap  seems  to  run  through  the  blood,  when  every- 
thing seems  reborn:  leaves  and  hopes. 

Bellegarde  had,  after  long  vacillation,  taken  a  resolution  that 
filled  him  with  hope  and  gaiety,  namely,  to  ask  Dona  Teresa 
for  the  hand  of  Ines.  And  he  who  was  accustomed  to  conquer 
gigantic  obstacles,  who  had  in  Europe  raised  millions  in  order 
to  launch  them  upon  America  afterwards,  who  had  left  behind 
him  in  the  United  States  and  Argentina  unprecedented  monu- 
ments to  his  audacity,  was  now  timorous  and  undecided,  almost 
overcome  by  an  insuperable  timidity.  He  did  not  dare  to  pre- 
sent himself  before  Dona  Teresa  to  voice  his  request  to  her,  word 
for  word,  and  much  less  did  he  find  the  courage  to  put  to  Ines 
direct  a  question  the  answer  to  which  meant  either  his  happiness 
or  the  reverse.  And  thus  wrestling  on  the  one  hand  with  his 
strong  passion  and  on  the  other  with  his  fear  of  a  refusal,  he 
had  concluded  finally  to  write  to  Dona  Teresa.  He  pondered 
over  it,  searching  out  the  best  terms  for  this  difficult  letter,  and 
thus  meanwhile  he  meditated  deeply  as  he  rode  on  the  car, 
glancing  to  one  side  and  the  other  of  the  landscape  through 
which  he  was  being  carried.  The  first  rays  of  the  sun  threw 
the  shadows  of  the  trees  upon  the  house  fronts.  He  noticed  a 
park,  beds  of  blooming  flowers,  rows  of  budding  trees,  small  sec- 
tions of  unimproved  land,  of  the  wild  prairie.  Like  a  remnant 
of  colonial  days,  he  saw  an  ancient  church  with  a  tall  brown 
tower,  and  this  in  the  midst  of  the  general  bustle  and  noise 
invited  thoughts  of  tranquillity,  of  peace,  of  silence.  The  city 


i86  PAX 

now  began  to  dwindle.  There  were  humble  low  buildings,  as 
though  surprised  in  their  poverty  and  humility  by  the  tramway 
line,  but  now  again,  on  higher  ground,  there  became  visible  high 
chimneys,  dun  smoke,  smoke  that  darkened  the  horizon,  floated 
off  in  a  westerly  direction,  and  vanished. 

Bellegarde  collected  himself,  concentrated  his  thoughts,  began 
to  think  once  more  of  the  wording  of  his  letter:  "  Dona  Te- 
resa Borja.  Highly  respected  lady  "...  or  should  he  say : 
"Friend"? 

To  the  left  the  horizon  opened  up  to  his  view.  On  the  oppo- 
site side  white  and  red  garments  hung  up  on  cords  were  drying 
in  the  wind.  The  mudwalls  of  the  road  shut  out  the  perspec- 
tive. In  the  distance,  above  the  brushwood  and  straw  on  top 
of  the  fences,  in  a  wavy  line  the  slopes  enwrapped  in  purple 
haze  rose  into  view.  On  the  right  hand  the  ridge  of  the  hills 
became  visible,  with  their  yellow  excavations  and  their  dark 
glens. 

"  I  take  the  liberty,"  continued  Bellegarde  in  his  musings 
regarding  the  contemplated  letter,  "  to  submit  to  you  a  matter 
on  which  depends  the  fate  of  my  whole  life.  If  my  pretensions 
are  excessive,  may  the  fact  be  pleaded  as  my  excuse  that  both 
yourself  and  Dona  Ines  have  treated  me  with  exquisite  kind- 
ness and  that  I  entertain  great  affection  for  her." 

The  prairie  opened  anew  before  his  eyes,  spacious  and  shin- 
ing, and  before  his  troubled  sight  unfolded  scenery  rich  in  lux- 
urious vegetation  and  verdure,  with  groups  of  stately  trees,  with 
its  carpet  of  flowers,  with  its  white  small  houses  upon  which  the 
sun  poured  its  flaming  rays.  Below  everywhere  again  mud- 
walls  lining  the  road,  and  these  concealed  the  whole  spectacle, 
much  as  the  drop  curtain  conceals  the  decorations  on  the  stage. 
Then,  toward  the  east,  Bellegarde  noticed  the  arms  of  a  wind- 
mill, with  white  and  red  roses  clambering  over  the  walls,  smoke 
rising  in  the  clear  air,  caper  bushes  which  detached  themselves 
with  their  flowers  from  the  somber  background  of  the  moun- 
tains. 

And  Bellegarde  in  his  mind  went  on  editing  his  letter: 
"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  informed  Senorita  Ines  of  my 
thoughts  before  taking  a  decisive  step.  ..." 

And  while  he  was  carefully  searching  for  the  proper  words, 
his  glance  once  more  wandered  over  the  scene  outside.  The 


SACRIFICE  187 

panorama  of  the  savanna  presented  itself  now  dotted  with  build- 
ings: red  country  houses,  also  blue  ones;  in  the  distance,  above 
the  violet  line  of  the  mountains,  a  cloud  touched  the  dazzling 
white  and  the  gleaming  reflection  of  the  snowy  pinnacle.  And 
before  continuing  his  letter  in  his  thoughts,  Bellegarde  recon- 
sidered in  his  memory  the  exact  phraseology  he  meant  to  employ, 
finding  the  terms  improper,  cold,  inadequate. 

And  in  the  same  measure  in  which  the  car  advanced  farther 
and  farther,  amidst  a  rattling  of  its  wheels  and  the  noises  from 
outside,  he  altered  again  and  yet  again  the  language  of  it.  The 
sun  beats  down  on  the  plain,  enamels  with  liquid  gold  the  turf, 
plays  upon  the  glass  of  the  windows,  loses  itself  in  the  leaves 
of  the  sycamores,  rising  above  the  grated  gates. 

Bellegarde  was  approaching  the  villa  in  which  he  dwelt,  and 
he  thought  of  leaving  the  car.  But  suddenly  he  resolved  to  go 
on  as  far  as  the  church  of  Chapinero  which  he  did  not  yet 
know,  although  he  lived  close  by.  This  impulse  was  fortified 
by  a  vague  desire  to  ask  the  aid  of  the  Virgin  of  Lourdes  at 
this,  the  most  important  hour  of  his  life.  Soon  he  came  near, 
and  a  moment  later  saw  the  church  with  its  incompleted  towers, 
and  with  its  round  windows  half  darkened  by  the  trees. 

He  crossed  the  little  square,  and  went  towards  the  huge  gate 
of  the  edifice.  The  vivid  light  from  outside  was  gathered  and 
quenched  in  the  naves  of  the  church  where  a  mystical  shadow 
dwelt.  As  he  stepped  in  he  scarcely  paid  attention  to  the  de- 
tails of  the  structure,  to  the  very  high  roof,  to  the  fretted  col- 
umns upholding  it.  In  the  front  part,  upon  the  cupola  of  the 
main  altar,  a  ray  of  sunlight  pierced  its  path  between  the  lumi- 
nous painted  windows,  darting  straight  for  the  beautiful  tiles  in 
somber  hues;  in  the  center  of  the  church  four  large  paintings, 
full  of  red,  blue  and  yellow,  were  remarkable.  In  this  mysteri- 
ous half-light  the  expert  glance  of  Bellegarde  was  gradually  dis- 
covering the  outlines,  the  profiles,  the  measurements  of  the  edi- 
fice, the  pulpit,  the  arches  of  the  main  body,  the  gallery,  and, 
besides,  the  series  of  compartments  in  its  windows,  the  taber- 
nacle which  covered  almost  the  entire  front,  decorated  in  white 
and  gold  upon  a  blue  ground. 

Most  of  the  bright  color  effects  were  lost  in  the  semi -obscurity, 
but  after  a  while  this  half-shadow  turned  into  clearness,  a  soft 
clearness  which  filtered  through  the  high  lateral  windows. 


i88  PAX 

Again  the  sun  penetrated  to  the  middle  of  the  church,  and  again 
the  vast  tabernacle  became  sharply  denned.  There,  as  in  the 
style  of  the  whole  edifice,  the  acute  angle  dominated.  It  was  its 
triumphal  note,  its  apotheosis.  But  the  eternal  twilight  killed 
the  effect  of  the  gold  of  the  canopies  and  their  splendor,  that  of 
the  moldings  and  the  arches.  The  tabernacle  glowed  like  a 
precious  jewel;  it  was  a  filagree  of  tiny  pillars,  of  rosettes,  of 
cupolas,  of  round  painted  windows,  and  of  groins.  In  the  cen- 
ter of  it  all,  in  a  huge  niche,  was  enthroned  the  Virgin  of 
Lourdes. 

From  the  main  altar  came  the  sonorous  voice  of  Doctor  Mi- 
randa. Adjoining  the  grating  of  the  communion  altar  the  red 
ribbons  of  a  clerical  order  were  sharply  relieved  .by  the  black 
mantillas  of  the  ladies.  A  clock  slowly  and  solemnly  struck 
the  hour.  The  noise  of  steps  became  audible.  The  seats  re- 
main vacant  for  a  moment ;  then  they  are  once  more  filled.  The 
crimson  ribbons  detach  themselves  again  plainly  from  the  som- 
ber black  of  the  ladies'  apparel.  A  shock.  The  whistle,  the 
bell  of  a  locomotive  are  heard.  The  whole  neighborhood  is 
filled  with  terrific  noise,  until  at  last  it  is  lost  in  the  highest 
vaults. 

Doctor  Miranda,  with  his  back  to  the  altar,  now  began  the 
communion  service,  and  Bellegarde  saw  Dona  Ana  coming  out 
of  one  of  the  chapels.  She  crossed  the  church  towards  the 
communion  altar,  and  her  feeble  frame  seemed  more  slender  than 
ordinarily.  She  raised  her  hands,  and  the  habitual  expression 
of  pain,  of  sadness,  had  become  more  accentuated.  Her  lips 
scarcely  moved,  then  with  a  gesture,  with  a  movement  of  abne- 
gation, of  hope,  she  knelt  down.  And  Bellegarde  divined  the 
cause  of  this  anxiety,  of  this  acerbity,  of  this  prayer.  This 
mass  which  a  nephew  of  Dona  Ana  had  come  to  say  in  the 
church  of  Chapinero,  this  sharing  of  the  holy  communion  serv- 
ice, were  for  the  benefit  of  Roberto,  for  his  happiness.  The  old 
lady  remained  prostrated  for  a  long  time.  At  last  she  rose,  and 
knelt  down  once  more  in  the  middle  of  the  church,  there  where 
all  the  marvelous  colors  blended  and  shone.  She  lifted  her 
face  bedewed  with  tears  to  the  Virgin,  and  it  seemed  as  though 
this  light  which  bathed  her,  these  gay  colors  which  impregnated 
her  mantle,  were  the  answer  of  the  Virgin,  the  signal  and  token 
of  comfort  and  support,  the  pledge  of  celestial  protection. 


SACRIFICE  189 

On  leaving  the  church  Bellegarde  approached  Doctor  Mi- 
randa and  Dona  Ana  to  invite  them  to  partake  of  luncheon  in 
his  villa.  They  accepted  and  followed  him  on  foot,  athwart  the 
flower  beds  where  the  shadow  of  the  trees  painted  fantastic 
shapes. 

After  luncheon  Doctor  Miranda  was  called  to  the  bed  of  an 
invalid  to  receive  his  confession,  and  Dona  Ana  and  the  Count 
remained  alone  in  the  dining-room. 

In  the  full  light  of  day  Dona  Ana's  feebleness  was  even  more 
noticeable.  An  unquiet  suffering  could  be  read  on  her  counte- 
nance, and  she  frequently  passed  her  trembling  hands  through 
her  hair.  Bellegarde  felt  his  affection  and  respect  for  the  old 
lady  growing.  He  had  divined  this  soul  filled  with  delicacy 
and  tenderness,  possessed  of  an  intense  sensitiveness  which 
doubled  her  suffering,  a  soul  capable  of  every  sacrifice  and  of 
self-forgetfulness,  and  endowed  with  a  prodigious  strength  to 
contend  against  anguish  and  misfortune. 

At  last  she  broke  the  silence. 

"  Sefior  Bellegarde,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  have  for 
some  time  been  anxious  to  speak  to  you  alone.  But  I  was 
afraid  I  might  encroach  on  your  time,  and  it  is  with  pleasure 
that  I  now  profit  by  the  occasion  offered  me." 

Bellegarde  listened  to  her  with  a  profound  expression  of  kind- 
ness and  veneration.  The  steel-like  keenness  of  his  eyes  was 
quenched,  and  his  penetrating  gaze  softened  and  became  full  of 
compassion  and  tenderness. 

"  Pardon  me  for  molesting  you,"  she  continued,  "  but  I  feel 
so  much  confidence  in  you." 

And  with  a  firm  voice,  emboldened  by  Bellegarde's  evident 
sympathy,  she  went  on: 

"  You  are  not  aware  of  the  series  of  misfortunes  and  calami- 
ties that  have  at  last  destroyed  our  wealth  which  formerly  was 
so  considerable.  But  it  is  generally  known  that  in  order  to 
take  shares  in  your  enterprise  we  had  to  dispose  of  our  most 
cherished  estates.  My  own  fate  does  not  awe  me.  I  need  very 
little  to  live.  But,  Roberto  .  .  ." 

And  in  the  tone  in  which  she  pronounced  these  last  three 
syllables  there  lay  all  the  love,  all  the  affection,  all  the  anxiety 
of  the  old  lady. 

"  As  I  told  you,  he  is  already  recovered.     The  accident  of 


190  PAX 

day  before  yesterday  seems  to  have  passed  without  leaving  per- 
manent traces.  .  .  .  The  Holy  Virgin  has  heard  my  prayer. 
.  .  .  To-day  he  has  gone  to  the  country  ...  as  he  must  not 
attend  to  business  matters  or  forego  the  rest  which  the  doctors 
have  prescribed  for  him.  ...  I  trust  you  will  make  allowances 
for  me  if  I  take  part  in  a  matter  of  this  kind,  and  that  I  turn 
to  you  in  search  of  information  and  advice." 

Bellegarde  bowed  in  token  of  his  great  pleasure  to  be  of 
service  to  her. 

"  They  are  buying  up  shares  of  the  canalization  scheme  .  .  . 
for  treble  their  cost,  as  I  believe.  .  .  .  For  us,  after  such  con- 
stant misfortunes,  it  is  an  unhoped-for  profit,  one  we  owe  to 
you.  ...  I  shall  not  endeavor  to  hide  from  you  the  fact  that 
Roberto  is  strongly  disposed  to  keep  those  shares,  but  I  live  full 
of  anxieties  and  distrusts ;  bad  luck  has  made  me  suspicious  and 
pessimistic.  ...  If  this  capital  should  be  lost  .  .  ." 

And  the  features  of  Dona  Ana  reflected  a  sudden  dread  and 
trepidation;  she  passed  her  hands  through  her  gray  locks. 

"  I  am  going  to  open  my  heart  to  you,  Sefior  Bellegarde," 
she  murmured;  "  thus  you  will  be  able  to  counsel  me  better. 
You  will  forgive  my  frankness,  will  you  not?  " 

Bellegarde  could  not  help  a  movement  of  misgiving,  or  pre- 
sentiment that  perturbed  him  and  which  made  him  contract  his 
eyebrows. 

"  Should  this  fortune  be  lost,"  continued  Dona  Ana,  in  a 
trembling  voice,  "  I  should  have  to  abandon  all  hope  of  a  mar- 
riage between  Roberto  and  Ines.  .  .  .  He,  as  you  doubtless 
know,  will  not  marry  if  poor.  .  .  .  And  this  connection  has 
been  the  dearest  wish  of  both  families  ...  the  last  dream  of 
my  life.  ...  I  should  die  contented." 

Dona  Ana  became  silent  and  fixed  her  glance  upon  him.  She 
observed  with  surprise  that  he  had  lost  color.  Bellegarde 
opened  his  eyes  first  very  wide,  and  then  closed  them.  His  face 
flushed  painfully,  and  a  moment  later  turned  deathly  pale,  while 
dense  drops  of  sweat  stood  out  on  his  forehead.  He  tried  to 
speak,  but  his  voice  died  in  his  throat.  At  last,  after  a  dis- 
tressing silence  during  which  he  resolved  anew  to  sacrifice  him- 
self, and  to  conceal  forever  his  love,  he  succeeded  in  controlling 
his  thoughts  and  in  remembering  Dona  Ana's  question. 

"  To  reply  properly  to  your  inquiry,  to  give  advice  worth 


SACRIFICE  191 

while,  Sefiora,"  he  managed  at  last  to  say  in  a  voice  strangely 
disturbed,  "  it  will  be  necessary  for  me  to  consult  figures  and 
calculations,  for  they  alone  do  not  allow  of  error." 

He  did  not  permit  his  agitation  to  become  manifest,  but  his 
voice  was  still  unsteady  and  his  cheeks  remained  pale. 

"  The  nominal  capital  of  the  company  amounts  to  ten  mil- 
lion dollars  up  to  the  present,"  he  went  on. 

And  while  he  kept  on  talking  about  calculations  and  figures, 
and  was  very  precise  about  amounts,  he  felt  successive  blows  in- 
side of  him  which  darkened  his  thoughts,  made  him  conscious 
that  his  hopes  had  been  destroyed,  his  existence  broken,  his  love 
dream  buried. 

"  Roberto  took  eight  founder's  shares  at  ten  thousand  dollars," 
he  nevertheless  proceeded  in  his  argument,  "  of  which  he  has  had 
to  pay  for  merely  the  fourth  part, —  the  first  instalment.  It 
might  have  been  very  risky,  his  having  invested  his  entire  capi- 
tal in  order  to  pay  this  first  instalment,  since  he  remained  with- 
out funds  to  cover  the  others.  But  it  so  happened  that  this 
daring  investment  turned  out  fortunate  for  him,  because  when 
the  enterprise  had  been  listed  on  the  stock  market  and  quoted 
there,  the  Bourse  at  once  doubled  the  value  of  the  shares  of  the 
founders,  so  that  Roberto  has  to-day  32,000  shares  in  sterling 
valuation,  and  owes  upon  them  but  60,000  gold  pesos." 

And  as  Bellegarde  still  read  incertitude  and  dread  painted  on 
the  face  of  the  old  lady,  he  went  on  furnishing  her  more  data 
on  the  matter. 

"  The  thousand  shares  of  ten  thousand  dollars  each  with 
which  the  company  was  founded,  were  converted  into  four  mil- 
lion shares  on  a  sterling  basis,"  he  explained.  ...  "  Don't 
they  weary  you,  Dona  Ana,  these  stock  market  details?  "  And 
since  he  saw  that  the  maternal  instinct  had  made  her  busy  her- 
self with  matters  else  foreign  to  her,  he  made  a  new  effort,  in 
order  to  divert  her  sad  reflections,  to  hold  her  attention  to  these 
prosaic  details.  He  continued,  therefore: 

"  These  shares  which  are  now  on  a  sterling  basis  have  been 
acquired  with  very  little  capital,  and  I  should  not  be  surprised 
if  when  the  whole  enterprise  becomes  sufficiently  known  on  the 
bourses  of  Europe  these  shares  should  go  still  higher,  so  many 
times  four  pounds  sterling,  you  understand.  .  .  .  The  sole  pos- 
sible obstacle  to  such  a  rise  might  arise  if  peace  were  threat- 


192  PAX 

ened.  .  .  .  But  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  my  enterprise  ought 
to  help  conserve  the  peace.  It  is  also  certain  that  this  enter- 
prise of  ours  will  bring  out  others  of  great  promise.  Roberto 
may  win  a  great  fortune  in  this  way  that  might  make  him  for- 
ever secure  against  any  whims  of  chance.  ...  In  order  to  avoid 
your  anxieties  and  bring  instead  tranquillity,  it  would  be  an  easy 
matter  to  sell  Roberto's  shares,  invest  the  capital  thus  secured 
in  a  safe  way,  for  which  purpose  I  should  gladly  cede  to  him 
when  he  is  ready  to  do  so,  an  equal  number  of  shares  to  mine, 
at  the  initial  price,  so  that  he  would  be  enabled  to  speed  up  his 
wedding,  since  you  are  so  anxious  for  it." 

"  Ah,  no,  sefior,  not  this,"  said  Dona  Ana  with  a  movement 
which  was  half  gratitude,  half  haughtiness,  "  you  have  done 
enough  for  us.  To  cede  to  us  shares  at  a  low  price  in  order  to 
render  the  value  of  ours  secure, —  such  a  thing  we  could  not 
accept." 

A  smile  passed  and  died  away  on  the  face  of  the  old  lady. 

At  the  door  Doctor  Miranda  appeared  now,  thus  interrupting 
the  confidential  conversation. 

"  I  start  to-morrow  for  the  Magdalena,"  said  Bellegarde, 
while  he  conducted  Dona  Ana  to  her  coach,  "  where  I  intend  to 
remain  for  quite  a  while.  Let  me  therefore  bid  you  farewell. 
All  I  can  do  for  Roberto's  happiness  and  for  your  own  peace  of 
mind,  I  will  do  with  pleasure,  just  as  though  it  concerned  my 
own  mother,  my  own  brother." 

Dona  Ana  having  taken  him  by  both  hands,  pressed  them 
with  effusion,  and  felt  that  in  those  strong  and  willing  hands, 
though  to-day  they  were  trembling  with  emotion,  were  all  the 
sincerity  of  the  words  the  Count  had  just  spoken.  She  was 
convinced  that  her  son  had  henceforth  a  loyal  friend,  a  powerful 
protector. 

"  And  now,"  added  the  Count,  "  I  have  a  favor  to  ask,  a  re- 
quest to  make,  since  I  shall  have  no  leisure  to  bid  adieu,  to 
return  to  Bogota.  It  is  that  you,  dear  lady,  will  present  my 
remembrances,  my  attachment,  my  sincere  wishes  to  Dona  Te- 
resa, ...  to  Ines." 


"  CHISPAS  "  193 

CHAPTER  XIX 


ROBERTO  opened  the  door  of  his  room,  went  out  into  the  cor- 
ridor, and  threw  a  glance  towards  the  large  corral  of  the 
hacienda.  The  crisp  wind  of  early  morning  blew  into  his  face, 
and  through  the  fine  drizzle  there  came  to  him  the  desperate 
bellowing  of  a  cow,  and  the  sweet  scent  of  crocus  and  violet 
from  the  garden.  In  the  stable  could  be  heard  the  tramping  of 
saddle  horses  and  mules,  and  the  jingle  of  stirrups,  while  at  the 
same  time  the  dry,  hard  hoof  beats  of  la  Alondra  against  the 
flinty  soil  of  the  stalls  became  audible.  Before  looking  at  the 
latter,  he  paid  a  moment's  attention  to  Maraton,  who  put  his 
paws  against  the  breast  of  his  master  and,  with  an  affectionate 
whining,  laid  his  head  upon  his  shoulder.  Roberto  put  the 
dog's  head  to  his  cheeks,  and  felt  the  heat  in  the  dog's  ears, 
while  the  latter  nozzled  him  lovingly.  The  man  put  his  arm 
around  his  dumb  friend's  neck  and  passed  his  hand  caress- 
ingly along  his  strong,  full  back. 

When  the  stable  boy  brought  Alondra,  the  majordomo  of  El 
Sanfal,  Casanova,  first  looked  after  the  girths  to  see  that  they 
were  moderately  tightened,  and  then  Roberto  mounted,  seized 
the  bridle,  and  sat  firmly  in  the  saddle,  while  the  horse  took  a 
few  short  elastic  bounds.  And  then,  followed  by  Casanova,  he 
was  lost  in  the  depths  of  the  fog. 

They  came  down  the  rise,  arrived  at  the  plains,  and  while  the 
mare  broke  into  an  easy  canter,  Roberto  descried,  through  the 
dense  mist,  very  dimly,  as  though  moving  in  a  dream,  the  con- 
tours of  neighboring  objects:  the  stone  fences,  the  edges  of  the 
field  close  by  with  its  thorny  weeds,  and  all  these  objects  at  once 
vanished  in  the  floating  blanket  of  white,  a  large  grayish  rock, 
briars  which  in  the  wrapper  of  fog  seemed  to  have  been  caught 
in  snowy  fleeces  of  sheep.  The  cows  scenting  the  horses  near, 
got  up,  snorted  disgustedly  and  lazily  arched  their  backs. 
From  among  the  reeds  and  from  the  pasture,  which  was  clipped 
quite  short,  there  came  intense  odors. 

Roberto  and  Casanova  galloped  along  the  plain,  and  in  this 
solitude  the  sounds  made  by  the  hollow  hoof  beats  of  Roberto's 


194  PAX 

mare,  those  of  the  majordomo's  colt,  reverberated  distinctly  in 
the  air,  while  the  tracks  of  the  horses  were  crossed  and  recrossed 
by  those  of  the  big  dog,  the  latter  losing  himself  for  a  moment 
in  the  haze,  reappearing  and  then  diving  into  the  same  veil 
again  that  enveloped  the  whole  landscape. 

The  prairie  was  only  dimly  to  be  perceived  in  this  semi- 
darkness.  The  masses  of  trees  showed  no  definite  outlines, 
but  surged  forth  like  phantasmagoria,  and  were  swallowed  up 
at  a  few  yards'  distance.  Roberto  felt  his  spirits  rise,  neverthe- 
less, under  the  influence  of  the  fresh,  moist  air  breathed  forth  by 
all  this  vegetation.  His  will  power  revived,  and  just  as  these 
nebulous  strata  began  to  be  subjected  to  the  influence  of  the 
ascending  sun,  his  thoughts,  too,  became  clearer  and  more 
tinged  with  hope. 

They  reached  a  small  gate  leading  into  the  pastures.  Casa- 
nova, spurring  on  his  colt,  rode  ahead  to  undo  the  catch,  and  the 
gate  opened  with  a  grating,  complaining  noise. 

In  one  spot  of  the  vast  pasture-ground  the  men  had  already 
driven  the  cattle  into  one  big  herd,  and  one  by  one  they  now 
yoked  them  to  the  horns  broken,  cut  down  or  corroded  and 
burnished  by  the  straps  with  which  they  were  tied. 

The  trousers  of  the  men  were  twined  up  the  middle  of  the  leg, 
and  showed  their  robust  limbs,  while  the  moisture  had  con- 
gealed the  frieze  garments,  fashioned  of  coarse  natural  wool, 
and  glistened  on  the  beards  of  the  laborers  and  the  backs  of  the 
oxen.  The  spans  of  oxen  crossed  the  fresh  plowing  ground, 
making  headway  with  great  trouble  and  sinking  deep  in  the 
tracks  left  overnight  between  the  stacks  of  corn  that  had  been 
removed.  They  were  yoked;  they  started  to  pull  with  great  ef- 
fort, while  the  hands  of  the  men  guiding  the  plow  somewhat 
timidly,  were  shaking  under  the  strain.  But  the  plowshare 
sticks  in  the  resisting  soil;  the  straps  of  the  oxen  grind  against 
the  yoke,  and  the  headpiece  creaks.  And  at  last,  with  a  great 
noise  of  tearing  and  rending,  the  tough  roots  in  the  ground  are 
torn  out,  and  great  slices  of  turf  fall  on  both  sides  of  the  plow- 
man. 

A  great  uproar  of  rough  voices,  of  shrill  boys'  voices,  inter- 
spersed with  whistling,  with  imprecations,  breaks  the  silence  of 
the  vast  plain,  awakens  the  echoes  of  the  huge  rocks.  It  re- 
sounds syllable  by  syllable,  accent  for  accent,  and  it  appears 


"  CHISPAS  "  195 

almost  like  a  grotesque  dialogue  between  this  horde  of  day  la- 
borers as  they,  with  shouts  of  encouragement,  with  reproaches, 
with  terms  of  endearment,  incite  the  oxen  along  the  new  fields, 
jerk  and  quiver  with  the  shaking  of  the  plow  handle  and  the 
burnished  horns  of  their  faithful  beasts  of  burden. 

Roberto  followed  the  plowmen  in  order  to  breathe  from  near 
by  and  with  relish  the  reek  of  the  oxen  and  the  odor  of  the 
newly  turned  earth.  Walking  thus  along  and  inhaling  this 
acrid  and  healthful  scent,  he  noticed  with  interest  the  surprise 
of  the  many  thousands  of  insects  which,  full  of  fright,  were 
waggling  on  the  edges  of  the  pieces  of  turf  that  had  been  turned 
up  by  the  sharp  plowshares, — how  they  wriggled  and  tried  to 
hide  at  the  bottom  of  the  furrow  on  feeling  the  cataclysm  of 
their  little  world,  exposed  to  the  pitiless  rays  of  a  light  hitherto 
unknown  to  them. 

After  giving  his  detailed  instructions  for  the  labors  to  be  per- 
formed by  the  men,  reprimanding  some  of  the  careless  farm- 
hands, and  adjusting  the  plows  themselves,  Casanova  on  his 
colt  followed  Roberto,  with  whom  he  returned  to  the  hacienda 
and  the  house. 

The  ladies,  wrapped  up  in  big  square  shawls,  and  their  cheeks 
rosy  from  the  nipping  air,  came  out  to  the  veranda  to  welcome 
him. 

"  But,  my  son,"  remarked  Dona  Ana,  with  an  air  of  appre- 
hension and  reproach,  "  so  early!  And  then  on  such  a  spirited 
animal!  " 

Roberto  dismounted,  and  kissed  her. 

"  No,  dear  mother,"  he  said,  "  it  is  Alondra,  and  she  knows 
me.  Early?  This  cool  air  has  done  me  much  good." 

Dona  Ana  shook  her  head  to  indicate  insistence  on  her  warn- 
ing, but  Dona  Teresa,  always  cheerful,  remarked  that  she  had 
never  seen  Roberto  looking  better.  And  Ines,  pointing  with  her 
hand,  exclaimed: 

"  Look,  Roberto,  at  the  effect  produced  by  the  mist!  " 

Only  the  hillock  on  which  stood  the  house  was  clearly  visible 
in  the  floating  whiteness.  But  a  few  steps  away  the  view  was 
shut  off  by  the  curtain  of  fog  which  began  to  shine  with  a  dim 
light,  and  this  was  becoming  more  and  more  intense.  The  sun, 
still  invisible,  was,  however,  announcing  its  returning  splendors 
by  a  curious  glow  above  the  hills,  and  at  the  very  first  rays  of 


196  PAX 

light,  the  great  bank  of  the  thick  haze  started  to  move  away,  to 
undulate  lazily,  and  to  pierce  this  mass  of  white  that  spread  out 
over  the  whole  length  and  width  of  the  savanna.  It  was  now 
slowly  falling  back,  as  though  gently  pushed  out  of  the  way, 
toward  the  west.  And  then  there  stood  revealed  a  mass  of  black 
trees,  in  distinct  shape,  as  if  engraved,  against  a  background  of 
milky  hue,  the  latter  fleeing  swiftly.  And  next  there  appeared, 
with  the  vagueness  of  a  dream,  lagoons  the  color  of  molten  steel, 
tongues  of  islands,  marshes  and  wide-spreading  meadows  of  a 
pale  delicate  green,  while  all  the  time  the  mist  flew  off  further 
and  further,  but  rolling  upwards,  each  time  forming  an  immense 
mass  denser  and  denser,  more  luminous,  with  rosy  reflections, 
with  changing  phantoms  of  a  pale  purple  hue.  As  it  gathered 
into  a  giant  mass  towards  the  mountains  to  the  west,  the  meadow 
lands  and  pastures  sprang  out  clearly,  and  up  on  the  heights,  in 
the  zenith,  there  were  forming  openings,  through  which  peeped 
the  pure  azure  of  the  sky,  waxing  larger  and  deeper  and  bluer. 
The  sun  had  triumphed.  It  now  shone  brilliantly  over  the  en- 
tire savanna,  and  the  pools  on  its  surface,  imitating  the  blue  of 
the  cloudless  heaven,  mirrored  its  beauties.  Only  over  the  river 
there  was  still  a  layer  of  mist,  following  the  curves  of  its  course, 
but  it  was  of  a  thin,  delicate  texture.  The  whole  enormous 
bank  of  moisture,  like  an  inundation  retreating  and  leaving  the 
fields  fresh  and  humid,  was  fleeing  in  the  direction  of  the  hori- 
zon, and  was  being  dashed  to  spray  against  the  chain  of  moun- 
tains in  the  west. 

"  See,  Roberto,"  said  Ines,  "  over  there  on  the  horizon, — 
those  grand  fringes:  the  horizontal  penciling  of  the  mist,  and 
on  top  of  it  the  gilt  fringe  of  the  summits!  " 

The  sun  outlined  the  objects,  and  the  shadows  were  becom- 
ing more  defined.  In  the  far  distance  the  mists,  still  pursued 
by  the  sun,  were  now  climbing  the  mountain  range,  where  they 
rose,  attained  the  summit,  afterward  disentangled  themselves, 
and  then  broke  in  pieces,  forming  thick,  glittering  clusters. 
There,  too,  the  condensed  clouds  rested,  and  next,  with  an 
ascending  movement,  painting  violet  shadows  upon  the  moun- 
tain chain,  they  floated  off  into  the  azure  ether. 

"  Ines,"  Roberto  remarked  with  his  weak  convalescent's  voice, 
in  which  there  was  a  broken  accent,  a  remnant  of  melancholy, 


"  CHISPAS  "  197 

"  there  goes  the  mist,  over  there,  slowly,  as  though  taking  leave 
of  this  earth  much  against  its  will." 

"  My  son,"  asked  Dona  Ana,  "  shall  we  not  take  our  milk 
now?  "  She  did  not  for  a  moment  forget  the  doctor's  instruc- 
tions and  the  regimen  prescribed  by  him. 

Roberto  took  the  arm  of  his  mother  like  a  lover,  and  together 
they  went  down  to  the  farmyard,  where  they  were  enveloped  by 
the  pleasant  smell  of  cattle,  by  the  tumult  of  bellowing  cows, 
the  deafening  lowing  of  the  calves,  and  the  clattering  of  milk 
pails  amidst  the  rattle  of  the  huge  earthenware  pans  now  cov- 
ered with  the  rich  foam  that  rose  to  the  top.  The  sun  gilt  the 
backs  of  the  cows  that  in  breathing  blew  the  air  vehemently 
through  their  nostrils.  The  calves  pushed  against  the  udders, 
and  bedabbled  themselves  with  rich  milk,  and  after  letting  go 
for  an  instant,  would  with  a  grunt  of  pleasure  begin  to  suck 
again,  would  drink,  and  lose  brilliant  drops  which  glittered  in 
the  clear  light. 

"  It  would  be  profitable  to  teach  the  automatic  calf  of  the 
inventor  Sanchez  de  Penanegra,  and  to  see  whether  it  could  do 
as  well  as  these  yearling  calves,"  said  Roberto,  with  a  burst  of 
laughter,  as  he  lifted  his  glass  of  milk. 

In  the  immense  curve  of  the  heights  the  clear  crystal  of  the 
sky  enveloped  all,  without  a  trace  of  vapor,  without  a  blot.  The 
blue  ether  lay  like  a  benediction  over  the  earth,  seemed  to  ad- 
here to  the  hills,  tinted  the  cliffs,  floated  on  the  waves  of  the 
river,  mirrored  itself  in  the  quiet  waters  of  pools,  and  this  sap- 
phire splendor  enwrapped  all,  submerged  all,  inundated  all. 
Far  away  in  the  depths  of  the  westerly  firmament,  in  the  diapha- 
nous atmosphere,  at  an  immeasurable  distance,  the  snow-capped 
Tolima  reared  its  crest. 

Maraton  ran  to  and  fro,  frightening  the  calves,  but  rather 
liked  by  the  cows. 

They  went  back.  Nearing  the  house  the  dog  raised  a  flight 
of  pigeons  which,  with  a  flapping  noise  almost  resembling  a 
burst  of  applause,  rose  in  the  air,  flew  towards  the  pasture 
grounds,  following  the  course  of  the  river  in  sweeping  turns, 
let  the  breeze  bear  them  on  for  a  spell,  floated  with  the  currents 
of  air,  seemed  to  be  about  to  settle  on  a  meadow,  and  then  with 
a  balanced,  rhythmic  motion  during  which  the  sunlight  glit- 


198  PAX 

tered  on  the  white  of  their  wings  and  vanished  again l  they 
turned  in  the  direction  of  the  house,  described  a  wide  spiral  and 
came  down  in  a  flock  on  the  roof.  But  the  voice  of  Ines,  who 
scattered  a  handful  of  kitchen  refuse  for  them,  brought  them 
down  again  in  the  inner  courtyard. 

"  Like  the  souls,"  said  Roberto,  "  who  in  the  Divine  Comedy 
come  at  the  compassionate  call  of  Dante." 

"  I  will  now  ring  the  bells  for  the  first  time  for  mass,"  he 
continued  after  a  while.  "  There  I  see  Milan  and  Bibiana  al- 
ready coming." 

The  bell  sounded,  scattering  its  cheerful  notes  through  the 
wide  plain  On  the  brow  of  the  nearest  hill  could  be  descried 
far  off  a  group  of  rustics  who  were  lost  to  view  a  moment  after 
in  the  ravine,  only  to  reappear  again,  and  who,  hearing  the  bell, 
quickened  their  pace. 

On  that  day  the  wedding  of  Milan  Gil,  the  majordomo  of 
General  Ronderos,  was  to  be  celebrated,  his  bride  being  Bibiana, 
she  of  El  Consuelo,  who  with  her  mother  dwelt  anew  at  El  Sau- 
zal.  As  Socarraz  had  made  an  effort  to  disturb  the  love  affairs 
of  Milan  and  Bibiana  by  having  posed  as  a  wooer  of  the  latter, 
and  as  the  quarrels  of  the  two  rivals  had  been  of  requent  occur- 
rence, Socarraz  was  never  seen  either  at  the  estate  or  by  his 
former  masters,  because  he  strongly  disliked  meeting  the  latter. 
The  disputes  between  Socarraz  and  Milan  Gil  —  whom  people 
usually  nicknamed  Chispas, —  happened  mostly  on  the  roads, 
at  the  market  and  sometimes  on  mountain  paths  where  they 
encountered  each  other.  Milan  had  been  victorious  in  his  woo- 
ing, to  the  satisfaction  of  everybody,  and  especially  of  Bibiana's 
mother,  who  lived  in  constant  dread  caused  by  the  rivalry  of 
the  two  lads,  forever  fearing  a  calamity  growing  out  of  it,  as 
she  had  stated  while  still  at  El  Consuelo. 

This  group  of  persons  now  presented  themselves  in  the  house. 
The  two  lovers  came  holding  each  other's  hands.  Their  slender 
figures  contrasted  singularly  in  the  smiling  cheerfulness  of  that 
forenoon  with  the  dark  costumes  of  their  surrounding  friends. 
Milan,  tall,  graceful,  with  his  hooked  nose,  his  black  and  closely 
trimmed  beard  looked  like  an  Arab.  From  his  face,  browned 
by  the  sun,  shone  happiness.  The  bride  was  a  piquant  bru- 
nette, with  a  fresh  mouth  and  two  rows  of  magnificent  teeth  that 
gave  vivid  expression  to  her  smile  and  her  words.  Her  wealth 


"  CHISPAS  "  199 

of  hair,  black  and  wavy,  was  gathered  quite  simply  on  the  back 
of  her  head  into  a  white  ribbon,  and  fell  with  exquisite  grace 
down  over  her  shoulders. 

Ines,  who  was  to  act  as  Bibiana's  bridesmaid  at  the  wedding 
ceremony,  took  her  off  to  a  room  to  help  her  don  her  bridal  cos- 
tume, the  same  which  she  herself  had  made.  Meanwhile  Gen- 
eral Ronderos,  Chispas's  best  man,  came  out  to  the  veranda, 
hugged  the  groom  and  presented  him  with  thirteen  ounces  of 
gold,  which  were  to  be  the  marriage  pledge  of  Chispas  at  the 
ceremony.  The  General  felt  a  real  affection  for  Chispas.  The 
latter  had  served  him  since  childhood  and  had  accompanied  him 
on  his  last  campaign.  First,  as  his  ordnance  officer,  and  later, 
after  repeated  heroic  feats,  as  chief  of  a  company.  Through- 
out Chispas  had  demonstrated  his  loyalty  and  his  valor.  Dur- 
ing the  mass  the  assembled  throng  of  country  people  filled  the 
chapel  to  overflowing,  so  that  they  crowded  even  into  the  adjoin- 
ing vestibule.  Groups  of  perspiring  farmers,  panting  from  the 
haste  they  had  made  in  order  to  arrive  in  time,  were  still  com- 
ing until  the  outer  hall  was  likewise  filled.  Roberto,  who  had 
remained  in  the  rear,  took  notice  of  the  brown  linen  dresses,  of 
the  new  frieze  garments,  of  the  starched  collars,  the  well- 
groomed  heads.  And  with  approval  he  saw  that  these  country 
people  reflected  in  their  carriage,  in  their  clothes,  the  well- 
being  and  the  ease,  sheltered  from  penury  and  far  away  from 
the  dangers  of  war,  which  these  better  times  made  possible. 

General  Ronderos  and  Ines  were  assisted  by  Casanova  and 
Dona  Teresa,  godparents  during  the  nuptial  benediction.  Ines 
sat  down  at  the  piano,  placed  expressly  at  the  farthest  end  of 
the  corridor,  and  played  during  mass. 

When  the  ceremony  had  been  concluded,  the  newly  married 
couple  passed  into  the  dining-hall  where  Ines  had  a  meal  served 
to  them,  and  then  Milan  and  Bibiana  mounted  their  horses  to 
go  to  La  Laguna,  General  Ronderos'  estate,  where  Chispas  had 
his  house  all  ready. 

All  went  into  the  outer  hall  in  order  to  watch  the  happy 
couple  depart,  and  they  did  not  leave  before  they  had  seen 
Chispas  and  his  young  wife  turn  the  first  bend  in  the  highroad, 
where  they  were  lost  to  view. 

Suddenly  there  came  the  sound  of  a  shot  in  the  far  distance, 
and  then  another  and  still  another. 


200  PAX 

"  Socarraz,"  shrieked  Bibiana's  mother,  seized  by  mortal  fear. 

"  It  cannot  be,  since  Socarraz  is  on  the  Magdalena,  with  the 
canalization  enterprise,"  replied  Roberto,  who  thereupon 
mounted  Alondra  and  went  off  like  lightning,  followed  by 
Casanova.  They  rushed  down  the  slope,  could  again  be  seen 
on  the  level  ground,  jumped  over  the  enclosure,  and  took  the 
road  at  a  gallop. 

Those  assembled  in  the  outer  hall  waited  in  deep  anxiety. 
For  another  time  they  made  out  Roberto  from  afar,  stretched 
almost  at  full  length  upon  the  black  mare,  and  behind  him, 
quite  a  distance  in  the  rear,  they  descried  Casanova.  Moment:: 
of  anxiety,  of  solicitude,  of  horrible  suspense.  No  one  spoke 
or  moved.  Dona  Ana,  quite  faint  from  all  this  -excitement, 
overcome  by  this  new  perplexity,  full  of  apprehension  because 
of  Roberto,  sought  refuge  in  the  chapel. 

Now  the  black  mare  reappeared  in  the  distance,  galloping 
swiftly.  Dofia  Ana,  guessing  that  Roberto  was  coming  back, 
came  out  of  the  house,  and  stopped  amidst  the  flower  beds. 

"  Yes,  it  was  Socarraz,  after  all,"  said  Roberto,  as  he  drew 
near.  "  He  opened  fire  upon  Chispas,  but  did  not  hit  him.  We 
were,  however,  unable  to  overtake  him,  since  the  scoundrel  was 
very  well 'mounted.  I  instructed  Casanova  to  accompany  the 
bridal  couple." 

As  soon  as  he  had  heard  those  shots  and  the  name  of  Socar- 
raz had  been  mentioned,  there  separated  from  the  group  of  ex- 
pectant rustics  a  very  straight  and  robust,  cleanly  shaven,  elderly 
man.  During  the  wait,  putting  his  trembling  hand  to  his  fore- 
head, to  see  better,  he  had  been  able  to  observe  the  road,  had 
seen  Roberto  come  back,  and  had  then  heard  about  the  latest 
doings  of  Socarraz.  Then  he  lifted  his  shaking  hands  to  heaven 
and  gave  vent  to  his  feelings  with  words  that  came  from  his 
dry  throat: 

"  Accursed  son !  " 

CHAPTER  XX 

THE   BETTER  CROSSING 

RAISING  a  cloud  of  dust  in  the  road,  another  horseman  could 
be  seen  in  the  distance.  A  new  surprise  for  Dona  Ana.  A  boy 


THE  BETTER  CROSSING  201 

finally  arrived,  dismounted,  and  handed  a  paper  to  Roberto. 

"  What  is  it,  my  son?  "  asked  Dona  Ana,  with  fresh  anxiety 
in  her  eyes. 

"  A  short  note,  a  very  pretty  one,  from  Dona  Aura,  begging 
me  to  see  her  at  once,  saying  that  she  needs  me  urgently." 

And  turning  to  the  boy  he  said,  "  Tell  Dona  Aura  that  I  will 
go  to  see  her  this  afternoon." 

Some  hours  later  Roberto  was  striding  through  the  flower 
beds  that  led  to  the  house  of  Cebaderos.  The  old  alder  trees 
which  on  either  side  had  formed  an  umbrageous  path,  were  gone. 
Their  trunks,  cut  down  near  the  ground,  showed  the  strokes  of 
the  ax.  Some  roots  had  begun  to  send  out  shoots,  but  their 
efforts  had  led  to  nothing. 

Dona  Aura  conducted  Roberto  to  her  study,  perfectly  over- 
burdened with  books  and  papers, 

"  Dolores  suffers  from  headache  and  has  locked  herself  in," 
she  told  him,  "  and  Ramon  keeps  his  siesta.  But  all  the  better! 
We  can  talk  all  by  ourselves.  I  have  to  consult  you  on  a  point 
of  the  highest  importance  to  myself.  It  concerns  the  climax  of 
the  novel  which  I  am  writing  at  present :  The  Elm  and  the  Ivy. 
It  abounds  with  the  choicest  sentiment,  and  is  full  of  original 
observations.  It  may  prove  my  master  work." 

From  the  next  room  Montellano  could  be  heard  snoring, 
flute-like  voices,  thunderous  ones,  breathings  through  the  nose, 
cut  short  by  words  uttered  evidently  in  a  nightmare.  Dona 
Aura,  after  putting  on  her  spectacles,  steered  for  a  table  where 
there  was  an  abundance  of  memorandum  books,  as  well  as  small 
bundles  of  sheets  tied  together  with  pink  or  blue  ribbons,  and 
on  which  grand  titles  such  as:  "  Plan,"  "  Entanglement,"  "  Cli- 
max," appeared  in  huge  letters. 

"  Outch,  .  .  .  oh,  oh,  .  .  .  outch!  "  she  piercingly  shrieked. 

"What  ails  you?  "  asked  Roberto,  with  polite  solicitude. 

"  This  hand.  See  here,  it  is  a  cramp.  The  fingers  contract 
painfully.  Doctor  Agueros  has  explained  it  to  me.  I  have 
what  they  call  Writer's  Cramp.  But  I  am  getting  over  it  al- 
ready. .  .  .  Now,  listen." 

And  she  started  out  with  a  shrill,  strident  voice: 

"  Epilogue.  .  .  .  When  they  entered,  Aurora  was  kneeling  in 
a  corner  of  the  room.  She  raised  her  hands  toward  heaven,  piti- 
ful, imploring." 


202  PAX 

But  the  lady  was  interrupted.  A  broken  moan  was  heard 
from  Montellano,  as  if  from  a  man  being  strangled. 

As  it  died  on  the  air,  the  lady  continued: 

"  Aurora,  beloved  Aurora,"  exclaimed  her  father,  "  rise,  be 
happy,  here  I  have  brought  you  a  husband,  Manfredo." 

Again,  from  the  adjoining  room:  "  Help,  help,  they're  mur- 
dering me,"  cried  the  stammering,  raucous  voice  of  the  million- 
aire. 

Roberto  got  up  from  his  seat,  suddenly  affrighted.  But  Dona 
Aura  calmed  him. 

"  It  is  nothing.  Ramon  has  dyspepsia.  ...  A  nightmare." 
And  she  went  on  reading  in  an  even  voice: 

"  The  young  girl  arose  and  ran  towards  Manfredo  with  open 
arms." 

"  The  safe,  the  safe,  let  go  the  safe!  "  bellowed  Montellano  in 
the  next  chamber. 

And  Dona  Aura  pursued  her  reading  undisturbed: 

"  Catalina,  the  poor  widow,  dwelt  in  the  grange  of  the 
castle.  Manfredo  and  Aurora  are  protecting  her.  Juana  is 
the  wife  of  the  gardener  attached  to  the  castle.  She  lives  in  the 
midst  of  flowers.  Only  the  wicked  man  suffers.  He  is  in 
jail." 

A  shout,  a  roar,  a  bouncing  noise  on  the  floor  of  the  other 
room,  and  with  hair  disheveled,  yawning  and  stretching  his 
limbs  Montellano  bursts  in  the  study  of  his  spouse. 

"  I  was  dreaming  that  they  had  broken  my  iron  safe  open," 
he  said  in  a  sleepy  drawl,  "  and  that  they  were  just  getting 
ready  to  throttle  me.  .  .  .  All  right.  .  .  .  When  you  two  have 
finished,  I  shall  be  waiting  for  you  outside,  Roberto." 

So  Dona  Aura  kept  on: 

"  In  this  other  scene  they  kill  the  heroine,  Aurora." 

She  took  up  another  booklet  of  notes,  and  pursued  her 
reading : 

"Epilogue:  The  pale  moon,  like  a  small  vessel,  was  row- 
ing in  the  extreme  altitude  of  the  firmament.  .  .  .  Sleeping  Na- 
ture appeared  to  take  a  peaceful  rest  like  a  child.  .  .  .  The 
night  owl,  just  .like  a  sentinel,  at  the  dawn  of  day  reposed  in 
a  niche  of  the  tower.  The  tired  wind  was  asleep  in  the  chalice 
of  the  flowers.  .  ,  ." 


THE  BETTER  CROSSING  203 

The  gruff,  big  voice  of  Montellano  was  again  heard  rum- 
bling outside: 

"  Here  I  shall  have  to  change  everything.  The  rent  you 
people  have  been  paying  Alejandro  was  a  mere  pittance." 

The  muttering  of  the  amazed  farmers  could  be  heard. 

"  Is  asleep  in  the  chalices  of  the  flowers.  And  before  an 
iron  tomb  on  which  the  name  of  Aurora  was  to  be  seen, 
Manfredo  was  kneeling,  and  ..." 

But  Montellano's  deep  bass  broke  in:  "I  shall  treble  the 
rents,  and  if  you  don't  like  it,  pack  up  and  get  out." 

And  now  again  Dona  Aura:  "Manfredo  was  kneeling, 
and  with  a  look  as  sad  as  the  bleating  of  a  stricken  deer.  ..." 

"  I  am  going  to  turn  these  haciendas  into  pasture  ground, 
and  all  these  vagabonds  may  go  to  the  devil." 

Then  Montellano,  impatient  because  Roberto  did  not  show 
up,  once  more  came  into  his  wife's  study. 

"  My  dear  woman,"  he  said,  "  don't  bore  Roberto  with  your 
nonsense." 

As  they  left  the  room  together,  Roberto  with  a  heavy  heart 
came  across  the  group  of  saddened  farmers,  their  heads  hang- 
ing down,  and  heard  them  humbly  protesting.  Some  women 
amongst  them  were  imploring  Montellano  with  tears  in  their 
eyes. 

"  Roberto,"  said  Montellano  when  they  went  out,  paying  no 
attention  to  the  reiterated  complaints  of  these  country  people, 
"  you  must  show  me  the  spot  where  the  old  channel  of  the 
water  drain  used  to  be.  Alejandro  had  the  hacienda  for  his 
pleasure,  whereas  with  me  it  is  a  matter  of  business.  He  left 
two  strips  of  arable  land  for  these  wood  ducks.  That  means 
good  land  wasted,  not  utilized." 

"  That  is  because  Alejandro  knows  that  the  useless  may  be 
useful." 

"  I  am  going  to  drain  those  pieces  of  land,"  Montellano 
went  on. 

They  proceeded  along  the  garden  paths  bordering  on  the 
pond  where  new  vegetation  had  sprung  up. 

"  How  much  land  is  lost  here,  how  many  useless  animals," 
shouted  Montellano. 

Some  of  the  ducks  were  sleeping  with  their  heads  on  their 
backs,  while  others,  in  the  attitude  of  the  self-sacrificing  pelican, 


204  PAX 

were  picking  vermin  from  their  breasts,  or  else  waddling  along 
on  the  ground  as  though  painfully  reflecting  on  their  lot, 
then  plunging  into  the  water  and  cleaving  its  still  surface, 
leaving  a  wake.  They  would  flutter  and  rise  just  above  the 
water,  while  from  their  glistening  and  burnished  plumage 
pearls  of  moisture  would  run.  One  jealous  duck,  full  of 
anger,  launched  itself  in  a  queer  run  over  the  surface  of  the 
pond,  raising  a  swell,  then  attacked  a  rival  and  tore  in  its 
furor  feathers  out  its  body,  and  the  feathers  floated  on  the  dis- 
turbed water. 

"  I  know  how  to  make  a  profit  out  of  all  this,"  argued 
Montellano.  "  By  draining  this  pool,  I  shall  have  a  good 
place  for  the  calves  that  are  now  kept  near  the  house.  The 
ducks  I'll  sell  in  the  market.  The  same  as  to  the  trees  in  this 
garden.  I  have  already  stripped  it  of  more  than  fifteen  thou- 
sand pesos'  worth  of  lumber." 

Roberto  looked  anew  with  sadness  and  anger  at  the  grove 
of  ancient  trees  that  led  to  the  house,  now  laid  waste  and 
destroyed.  How  many  times  he  had  played  with  Alejandro  in 
the  old  days  under  the  shade  of  those  alder  trees! 

A  boy  came  up. 

"Would  you  sell  me  some  fruit  out  of  your  garden?"  he 
asked. 

"  Everything  is  for  sale,"  exclaimed  Montellano,  "  plums, 
pears,  all.  .  .  .  Just  look,  Roberto,"  he  spoke,  counting  care- 
fully the  paper  money  the  boy  had  given  him.  "'You  people 
never  sold  as  much  as  the  fourth  part  of  an  arroba  of  this  fruit. 
The  orchard  now  brings  me  in  a  matter  of  a  thousand  to  a 
thousand  and  fifty  pesos  a  month,  if  not  more,  while  I  stay  here. 
You  never  did  anything  with  it  except  spend  money.  I  bet 
that  such  a  thing  never  entered  your  mind  while  you  were 
here,  and  that  you  did  not  think  it  was  ever  possible  to  draw 
money  out  of  it,  did  you  ?  " 

"  Never,"  replied  Roberto,  "  never." 

"  Same  thing  with  the  chapel.  I  am  also  going  to  make 
something  out  of  that.  What  is  the  good  of  it  now?  The 
little  oratory  is  quite  enough  for  the  purpose." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  the  chapel  ?  "  interrupted 
Roberto,  filled  with  alarm  to  think  that  this  man  was  on  the 
point  of  destroying  the  building  which  rose  beside  the  manor 


THE  BETTER  CROSSING  205 

house,  and  where  in  times  gone  by  masters,  servants  and  farm- 
ers had  met  to  celebrate  Christmas  eve.  His  mind  reverted 
to  that  sacred  and  mysterious  spot  which  inspired  respect  with 
its  moss-grown  roof,  its  venerable  front,  its  nail-studded  heavy 
gate,  its  clock  tower,  whence  the  sonorous  bell  every  Sunday 
had  scattered  throughout  the  neighboring  countryside  its  clear 
notes,  for  many  years,  for  centuries  even,  summoning  so  many 
generations. 

"What  I  mean  to  do  with  the  chapel,  you  say?  Well,  a 
mill  probably.  The  taking  off  of  water  is  here  no  longer 
permitted.  And  it  is  a  magnificent  site." 

Roberto,  who  felt  uneasy,  full  of  anxiety,  wished  to  take  his 
leave.  He  desired  to  get  away  from  all  this,  not  silently  to 
acquiesce  in  such  spectacles  of  destruction,  of  barbarism,  which 
to  him  seemed  almost  a  kind  of  murder. 

"  I  shall  accompany  you,"  said  Montellano.  "  I  shall  take 
you  as  far  as  the  boundary  line  of  El  Sauzal,  over  there,  as 
far  as  that  stone  fence." 

Suddenly  the  noise  of  a  distant  train  began  to  be  audible. 
Montellano,  to  Roberto's  surprise  started  to  run,  leaped  over 
an  enclosure,  and  took  a  short  turn  through  the  intervening 
territory.  There  were  two  high  fissures  in  the  rocks,  both 
crowned  by  low  stone  walls;  in  the  background  the  railroad. 
The  gleaming  rails  between  the  gravel  beds  which  were  ex- 
posed to  the  powerful  sunlight,  stretched  far  away,  and  were 
lost  at  last  to  view  at  a  bend  of  the  blue-tinted  savanna. 
Right  in  the  midst  of  the  track  a  full-blooded  Durham  bull 
was  standing.  Montellano  tried  hard  to  frighten  the  bull  away 
and  save  him  from  the  approaching  train.  But  the  beast  fol- 
lowed the  track  steadily,  and  turned  around  now  and  then, 
shaking  his  head  and  ready  to  attack.  Now  a  dull,  rumbling 
noise  could  plainly  be  heard,  decreasing,  augmenting,  losing 
itself  for  an  instant,  again  increasing,  and  announcing  alarm- 
ingly the  invisible  train.  And  Montellano,  jumping  with  diffi- 
culty over  the  railway  sleepers,  crushing  rudely  the  cinders  on 
his  path,  slipping  between  the  rails,  tottering  on  the  gravel, 
followed  still  the  bull  in  his  desperate  attempts  to  frighten 
him  away,  to  scare  him  over  to  the  safe  side,  to  drive  him  to- 
wards the  bank  below.  But  the  animal,  without  perceiving  its 
danger,  by  turns  prepared  for  an  attack  and  again  ran  be- 


206  PAX 

tween  the  track.  And  already  the  train  was  nearing  the  curve 
of  the  embankment. 

But  now  Montellano  saw  his  own  danger,  quickly  slid  down 
the  declivity  and  got  on  his  feet  again.  Then,  in  safety,  he 
exclaimed  cheerfully  and  tranquilly: 

"  All  right,  let  them  kill  him  if  they  will.  I  await  the  out- 
come gladly." 

Second  after  second  the  snorting  and  concussion  grew  with 
a  ferocious  insistence,  with  menacing  power.  At  the  bend,  with 
a  still  increasing  volume  of  noises  and  in  a  huge  cloud  of 
smoke,  the  threatening  train  became  at  last  visible.  Now 
it  came  down  the  incline.  The  steel  rails  were  trembling  and 
vibrating,  clanking  like  an  anvil  under  the  strokes  of  the  ham- 
mer. The  engine  shrieked  with  alarm,  with  desperation. 
The  whistling  was  repeated  a  hundred  fold  by  the  echoes 
of  the  mountains.  And  in  the  midst  of  a  catastrophic 
clamor,  vomiting  steam,  flinging  fragments  of  live  coal  about, 
in  the  midst  of  the  fiery  sheen  of  polished  copper  and  steel, 
the  locomotive  resistlessly  advances,  reaches  the  crossing.  The 
earth  is  shaking,  ...  a  terrific  shock  ...  a  fiendish  bellow 
...  a  crunching  of  bones  ...  a  breath  of  heat  .  .  .  the  odor 
of  singed  flesh  .  .  .  another  wave  of  steam  .  .  .  drops  of  blood 
.  .  .  and  with  a  last  outburst  of  shrill  lamentations  the  train 
is  past,  is  fleeing  towards  the  distant  landscape,  disappears  in 
smoke,  leaving  in  the  silence  of  the  prairie  the  violent  vibrations 
of  the  rails,  like  the  tune  of  two  ropes  of  steel. 

"  They  will  certainly  pay  me  well  for  this,"  shouted  Montel- 
lano, with  loud  laughter.  "Thousand  dollars?  No,  indeed, 
sir,  but  four,  five  thousand ;  just  as  in  the  case  of  the  other  bull 
whom  they  killed  on  me  last  month  ...  at  the  same  spot  pre- 
cisely ...  in  this  pasture.  ...  I  shall  collect  my  five  thou- 
sand, and  with  that  commission  added,  four  bulls  instead  of 
one.  Suits  me.  It's  all  business." 

They   soon    arrived   at   the   boundary   line   of   El   Sauzal. 

Roberto  said  good-by  to  Montellano,  but  the  latter  de- 
tained him  still  another  instant. 

"  Tell  me,  Roberto,"  he  said,  "  as  you  know  this  kind  of 
land  well  and  as  I  intend  to  put  in  a  claim  for  those  bulls, 
which  is  the  best  type  of  crossing  in  your  opinion?  " 

"  The  best  crossing,"  replied  Roberto,  while  he  opened  a 


TWILIGHT  207 

gate  leading  to  his  estate,  "  for  your  purpose,  the  best  type  of 
crossing,  the  most  productive  one?     Bulls  with  locomotives." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

TWILIGHT 

AFTER  passing  the  confines  of  his  estate,  Roberto  met  his 
mother  and  Ines,  Dona  Teresa  and  Doctor  Miranda,  who  were 
taking  an  evening  stroll,  and  went  with  them  to  the  brow  of 
the  hill  whence  a  very  picturesque  view  was  to  be  had. 

At  a  bend  a  wall  of  granite  rose  abruptly.  The  edges  of 
the  rock  formed  in  the  face  of  the  stone  oval  openings,  rows  of 
columns,  and  seemed  fantastic  creatures,  winged  dragons. 

Separated  from  the  wall,  isolated,  rose  a  gigantic  tower.  One 
seemed  to  see  here  marked  by  the  layers  in  the  rock,  the  suc- 
cessive and  ascending  impact  of  the  waves  during  the  flood,  and 
from  top  to  bottom,  the  tremendous  shocks  of  those  tempests, 
those  scorchings  by  the  sun,  those  erosions  made  by  the  cen- 
turies. Out  of  the  age-worn  rock  the  howling  wind  is  forever 
roaring,  and  scatters  about  the  valley  eagle-feathers,  blood- 
stained bones.  And  in  the  sides  of  the  huge  tower  alternate 
red  and  whitish  stains  with  blackish  stripes.  The  bushes  drive 
their  roots  into  the  small  fissures  and  shake  and  tremble  above 
the  abyss.  Twining  plants,  their  leaves  spotted  with  purple, 
clutch  the  cracks  of  the  rock,  and  float  above  them  in  trailing 
festoons.  Delineated  clearly  against  the  light  rise  tall  leaves 
of  the  quiches  and  motuas  that  affect  this  place,  similar  in 
shape  to  bundles  of  swords.  On  the  summit,  where  the  wind 
never  sleeps,  there  undulate,  bend  and  rise,  the  long  hairy  tops 
of  the  pajonales. 

They  went  back.  Doctor  Miranda,  Dona  Ana  formed  the 
rear.  In  front,  keeping  silent,  were  Ines  and  Roberto,  scan- 
ning the  western  heavens,  put  into  a  pleasant  frame  by  this 
friendly  and  caressing  landscape,  by  the  odors  of  pennyroyal 
and  rue,  by  this  soft  light.  The  crouching  cows,  full-fed,  went 
peaceably  grazing,  nibbling  and  chewing  the  cud  by  turns.  Up 
on  the  hill,  their  silhouettes  dimly  defined  on  the  horizon, 
the  mares  are  pasturing. 


208  PAX 

At  the  opposite  side  the  prairie  shines  in  all  the  richness  of 
its  coloring.  A  fringe  of  clouds  is  veiling  the  sun  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  the  colors  mingle.  A  dun  haze,  quite  uniform,  covers 
the  wide  plain  from  end  to  end.  But  the  cloud  passes,  and 
all  the  original  tints  reappear  clearly, —  greens  and  reds  and 
blues  and  yellows  of  vegetation,  the  herds  of  cattle,  the  gold 
of  the  sunflowers,  the  brown  or  red  roofs  and  towers  of  distant 
villages,  the  river  with  its  tranquil  waters,  smooth  and  glaring. 

In  a  lengthy  piece  of  ground,  in  full  sunlight,  between  two 
broad  shadows,  Roberto  made  out  El  Risco,  the  ancient  hacienda 
now  lost,  its  groves,  its  large  rocks,  its  old  house,  the  monu- 
mental portal  —  far  away,  forming  a  white  point.  And  in  the 
placidity  of  this  late  afternoon  there  passed  through  his  recol- 
lection visions  of  years  seeming  already  remote,  years  in  which 
he  and  Ines,  looking  at  the  same  panorama,  towards  the  sink- 
ing sun,  caressed  by  the  well-known  landscape,  by  the  penetrat- 
ing scent  of  mint  and  rue,  surveyed  the  slopes  and  the  plain, 
crossed  the  savanna  together,  made  the  gravel  on  the  hills  crunch 
under  their  feet,  the  meadows  of  El  Sauzal  and  El  Risco  echo 
the  hoof  beats  of  their  swift  horses.  And  by  a  movement  that 
was  almost  mechanical,  as  though  pushed  on  by  his  own  remem- 
brances, by  the  romance  which  emanated  from  all  the  sur- 
rounding objects,  he  approached  Ines  and  offered  her  his  arm. 

The  wind  carried  to  him  the  vibrant  voice  of  Doctor  Miranda, 
the  gay  laughter  of  Dona  Teresa.  There  arose  in  the  peace  of 
twilight  harmonious  murmurs  like  echoes  of  well-being,  of  lively 
movement,  of  wealth.  The  flock  of  sheep  came  down  to  the 
plain,  bleating,  the  snow  of  their  fleece  passing  through  the 
ravine.  On  the  footpaths  of  the  slope  the  workmen  who  re- 
turned from  their  labor  sang  lustily.  There  resounded  from 
the  newly  plowed  fields  the  shouts  of  the  men.  From  the  high- 
road rose  the  whistling  of  the  muleteers,  the  heavy  rumble  of 
their  carts.  The  humming  of  the  threshers  could  be  distin- 
guished far  away.  The  wind  carried  the  clamor  of  the  trains 
in  the  distance  through  the  still  air,  and  but  a  white  cloudlet 
of  dissolving  steam  was  left  in  the  azure  of  the  sky.  Nearer, 
immense  masses  of  cattle  on  the  plains  advanced  at  the  sound 
of  the  horn. 

The  sun  set  the  floating  clouds  aflame  in  the  west  and  spread 
a  rosy  mantle  over  the  whole  prairie. 


TWILIGHT  209 

Roberto's  pessimism  and  the  anxiety  of  his  mother  vanished 
in  this  sea  of  peace,  cheerfulness  and  repose. 

Doctor  Miranda  approached  Roberto. 

"  You  remember,"  he  said,  "  the  depressing  circumstances 
which  we  took  as  a  text  last  New  Year's  Day  at  Aunt  Teresa's 
house?  Well,  now,  in  the  midst  of  this  hymn  of  peace,  an- 
other text  of  Zachary  occurs  to  me  to  counterbalance  that: 
Semen  pads  erit;  vinea  dabit  fructum  suum,  et  terra  dabit 
germen  suum,  et  coeli  dabunt  rorem  suum,"  he  exclaimed  with 
his  arms  spread  out.  "  He  will  water  the  seed  of  peace,  and 
then  the  vine  will  yield  its  grapes,  the  earth  its  fruits,  and 
Heaven  its  dew." 

When  they  arrived  at  the  house,  they  were  met  with  letters 
from  Alejandro  bearing  the  Canalization  stamp:  two  C's  in- 
terlaced. 

The  letter  said: 

"  I  am  writing  you  from  Puerto  Borja,  a  place  recently  born 
on  the  margin  of  the  Magdalena  as  an  affectionate  distinction 
conferred  by  Bellegarde,  who  wished  to  baptize  with  the  name  of 
one  of  our  ancestors  this  spot  of  which  some  day  it  may  be  said 
*  A  settlement  founded  but  yesterday,  and  to-day  a  powerful 
city.'  The  photographs  which  I  sent  you  will  convey  to 
your  mind  a  rather  exact  idea  of  Puerto  Borja.  It  is  an  im- 
mense esplanade  which  in  the  background  is  closed  by  a  moun- 
tain, on  the  coast  line  with  the  canalization  buildings  and  on 
the  front  the  river.  The  houses,  which  arrive  here  numbered 
from  the  United  States,  go  up  as  though  by  magic.  The 
structure  where  the  management  is  housed,  and  in  which  Bel- 
legarde and  I  dwell,  is  a  magnificent  residence  in  which  noth- 
ing is  lacking.  We  have  electric  light,  fans  which  purify  the 
air,  and  even  a  piano.  It  is  incredible  how  all  this  has  been 
done.  I  have  seen  the  movable  docks  at  work.  The  constricted 
water  precipitates  itself  at  the  center  of  the  river  and  itself, 
too,  excavates  the  bed  of  the  river,  sweeps  up  the  sand  and 
gravel  in  a  twinkling,  dies  in  the  bottom  of  the  drain,  and 
conveys  the  mud  towards  the  ocean.  And  when  the  current 
is  unable  to  do  so,  we  have  the  dredgers  that  stretch  forth  their 
iron  arms,  carry  them  through  the  air,  sink  them  in  the  river, 
dig  at  the  bottom,  and  next,  with  the  measured  movement  of 
giants,  remove  the  mud,  take  it  up,  and  deposit  it  on  the  shore. 


210  PAX 

All  this  goes  on  in  the  midst  of  the  bustle  of  the  steam  launches, 
that  are  shooting  up  and  down,  whistle,  waken  the  echoes  of 
the  forest  and  impart  life  to  these  solitudes.  In  a  word,  it 
means  the  resurrection  of  a  dead  world.  In  parenthesis,  while 
I  am  writing  you  in  haste,  with  all  this  noise  of  the  launches 
and  the  infernal  clamor  of  the  chains  on  the  dredgers  going 
on  incessantly,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  we  had  a  holiday  yes- 
terday. We  christened  by  the  names  of  The  Ines  and  The 
Bellegarde  the  two  most  important  vessels  of  the  company.  We 
also  broke  a  bottle  of  champagne  against  the  prow  of  the  ships. 
Tell  her  this  when  you  see  her  next,  provided  you  are  not 
actually  at  her  side  when  this  letter  reaches  you. 

"  How  much  I  like  this  work !  At  times  I  think  I  obey  a 
law  of  heredity  (be  it  said  between  us  and  without  meaning  to 
brag),  and  I  recall  the  fact  that  it  was  our  ancestor,  Don 
Juan  Borja,  who  as  President  of  this  viceroy alty,  busied  him- 
self regulating  the  navigation  of  this  river  and  establishing 
ports  for  commerce.  Sometimes  I  say  to  myself  as  I  pace  these 
shores:  Here  it  was  where,  centuries  ago,  he  was  working  for 
civilization,  and  here  it  is  where  I  am  continuing  his  work. 

"  I  have  spoken  to  you  of  the  canalization  labors,  but  not 
of  the  colonization.  And  yet  the  latter  is  the  prettiest  part. 
Imagine  four  thousand  toilers:  Antioquians,  Jamaicans,  Chi- 
nese, handling  the  ax,  the  machete,  not  in  order  to  cut  off 
heads,  but  to  thin  the  forest,  to  fell  cedars,  the  most  precious 
of  timbers,  which  they  throw  into  the  current  that  is  intended 
to  carry  them  to  Europe.  Forest  groves  of  rubber  trees,  bleed- 
ing at  all  hours,  are  the  most  productive  branch  of  the  whole 
enterprise.  We  have  besides,  thousands  of  fanegadas  of  soil 
clear  of  the  mountains,  rendered  healthful,  cultivated,  covered 
with  plane  trees,  and  the  exportation  of  bananas  in  the  launches 
is  enormous.  All  this,  at  which  Karlonoff  was  laughing  so 
much  in  his  dissertations  chockful  of  scientific  statistics  and 
unscientific  Gallicisms,  is  already  a  fact,  and  inside  of  five 
years  it  will  be  a  miracle,  realized  by  science  and  money.  En- 
closed you  will  find  some  clippings  from  the  Economiste  Beige 
and  some  other  periodicals,  so  that  you  can  see  that  they  al- 
ready have  confidence  in  this  enterprise  in  Europe.  The  quo- 
tations are  marked  with  red  pencil.  You  will  see  that  the 
shares  at  one  pound  sterling  each  are  quoted  at  three  pounds 


TWILIGHT  211 

at  the  Stock  Exchange  of  London.  This  confidence,  this  en- 
thusiasm, which  in  foreign  parts  awakens  interest  in  our  enter- 
prise, are  a  tremendous  force,  and  in  this  way,  with  other  en- 
terprises and  in  other  fields  of  endeavor,  we  can  to-day  lift  this 
country  to  new  levels. 

"  In  my  whole  life  I  have  never  spent  a  time  that  was  as 
pleasant  as  this  one,  endeavoring  to  make  this  river  service- 
able and  navigable,  dominating  Nature,  eradicating  mountains 
and  dense  forests. 

"  I  suspended  my  letter  here,  since  I  had  to  inspect  the  work 
at  several  points.  You  cannot  possibly  imagine  what  the  clear- 
ing of  a  forest  really  means,  what  a  scene  of  grandeur, —  how 
tragic,  even,  it  is.  Who  could  describe  it  worthily? 

"  Between  the  shadows  of  impenetrable  glades  one  hears  the 
blows  of  the  ax.  The  woodcutters  by  turns  attack  a  giant  cedar, 
the  king  of  the  forest.  From  its  higher  branches  up,  full  of 
wind  and  sonorities,  the  tree  seems  to  look  down  with  dis- 
dain upon  the  creatures  busy  at  its  roots,  creatures  tiny  as 
pigmies.  But  they,  persistent,  untiring,  go  on  delivering  blow 
upon  blow.  The  grateful  aroma  of  rosin  embalms  the  air. 
The  gleaming  edges  of  the  axes  glitter  when  raised  on  high 
towards  the  light.  The  chips  are  flying.  The  axes  rise  and 
fall.  They  bite,  whirr,  and  keep  on  coming  deeper  and  deeper 
in  the  trunk.  They  already  are  beyond  the  bark,  where  they 
have  marked  a  white  circle.  They  are  nearing  the  heart  of 
the  tree.  The  cedar,  undaunted,  haughty,  erect,  still  dominates 
the  forest,  without  quaking,  without  trembling.  It  ignores 
or  scorns  death.  And  the  men  with  their  axes,  panting,  emit- 
ting whistles  of  fatigue,  but  nevertheless  tenacious,  go  on  deal- 
ing blow  after  blow,  while  the  chips  fly  about  and  their  axes 
are  flashing.  They  have  now  passed  beyond  the  white  layer, 
they  are  attacking  the  reddish  core.  The  cedar  bows  blandly, 
daintily,  coquettishly,  as  though  rocked  by  the  wind.  But  there 
is  a  frightful  booming,  a  crashing  salute,  and  the  gigantic 
tree  lies  on  the  ground,  with  its  foliage  crushed,  its  mighty 
branches  broken. 

"  Impossible  to  paint  either  with  brush  or  pencil  these 
scenes,  these  landscapes  which  are  constantly  before  my  eyes. 
Impossible  to  copy  this  Nature  in  which  vegetation,  almost  as 
if  maddened  by  the  heat,  twists  the  trunks,  cracks  the  branches, 


212  PAX 

weaves  and  reweaves  in  close  union  curtains  of  clinging  plants, 
crowds  the  knots  on  the  bindweed,  strangles  the  trees,  ex- 
tends on  the  soil  new  shoots  seeking  the  light,  pushes  the 
foliage  towards  the  top.  In  a  very  fever  of  life,  in  an  over- 
abundance of  sap,  in  an  impetus  of  expansion  vegetation 
there  covers  not  alone  the  earth,  but  even  pierces  space  and 
attempts  to  conquer  it. 

"  I  cannot  close  this  letter  without  speaking  to  you  of  Belle- 
garde.  What  a  man!  He  maintains  an  even  balance  between 
the  heart  and  the  head.  He  knows  the  enterprise  with  all 
its  mechanism,  as  he  knows  a  sonata  with  all  its  notes.  At 
five  in  the  morning  he  has  already  washed  and  shaved,  and  is 
attending  to  his  correspondence  with  Europe,  the  Mississippi, 
Argentina.  He  toils  the  whole  day  long,  attends  to  every  de- 
tail, passes  from  his  vessel  to  the  felling  of  trees  in  the  woods, 
from  the  woods  to  the  dredges,  to  the  gasoline  launches.  He 
orders  all,  keeps  this  complicated  piece  of  machinery  always 
oiled,  and  after  thirteen  hours  of  hard  labor,  never  having 
breathed  a  word  of  complaint,  without  any  disharmony,  he  sits 
down  in  the  little  cabin  of  The  Ines  to  eat  his  meal,  correct, 
in  a  Tuxedo,  monocle  adjusted,  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole,  a 
smile  on  his  lips. 

"  I  have  seen  Bellegarde  only  once  excited,  and  that  was 
on  account  of  an  incident  which  I  am  going  to  relate  to 
you. 

"  In  spite  of  the  great  heat  here,  Socarraz  has  given  us  a 
lot  of  trouble.  Since  his  arrival,  Bellegarde,  without  men- 
tioning the  occurrence  on  board  the  Bicontinental,  had  treated 
him  with  his  cold  and  measured  courtesy,  and  Socarraz  had 
supposed  that  Bellegarde  with  his  exquisite  manners  desired 
to  confer  a  special  distinction  on  him,  a  decided  proof  of 
friendship,  and  did  not  spare  his  familiarities.  Soon  there 
came  his  fits  of  drunkenness,  his  noisy  quarrels,  even  attempts 
at  fomenting  rebellion  among  the  squads  of  laborers  placed 
under  his  care.  Fortunately  he  found  the  work  too  hard,  the 
sun  too  hot,  the  food  not  to  his  taste,  and  asked,  therefore,  that 
he  be  placed  somewhere  else  where  he  might  be  enjoying  the 
shade.  Bellegarde,  who  had  hitherto  overlooked  all  the  short- 
comings of  the  publisher  of  El  Escorpion,  agreed  to  let  him 
have  the  post  he  desired,  and  so  to  please  him  he  gave  him,  what 


TWILIGHT  213 

do  you  think?  A  job  with  the  cashier.  He  meant  by  giving 
him  this  proof  of  his  confidence,  to  sharpen  his  sense  of  honor 
and  of  delicacy.  Nevertheless,  very  soon  there  began  mistakes, 
irregularities,  shortages  in  the  cash,  until,  one  day,  after  having 
had  enough  of  all  this,  Bellegarde  discovered  a  defalcation 
in  the  accounts  much  larger  than  the  preceding  ones.  He 
summoned  the  guilty  one,  demonstrated  his  culpability,  warned 
him,  required  of  him  to  make  up  the  deficiency  or  else  to  quit. 
But  the  other  protested,  denied,  tried  to  pass  on  the  guilt  to 
his  fellow- workers,  treated  Bellegarde  as  a  slanderer,  until 
the  latter,  unable  to  bear  any  more  of  this,  dismissed  him. 
Thereupon  Escipion,  vomiting  atrocious  threats,  blind  with 
anger,  launched  himself  upon  Bellegarde.  I  saw  the  knife 
flash  in  his  hand,  very  near  the  neck  of  the  Count,  but  he,  re- 
maining quite  cool,  disdainful,  like  lightning  seized  that  arm, 
took  hold  of  the  wrist,  and  twisted  it  with  Herculean  strength, 
until  the  knife  slipped  out  of  it,  and  Socarraz  fell  to  the 
ground  begging  for  pity.  Bellegarde  merely  turned  his  back 
on  him,  and  Escipion  went  away  menacing  the  Count  with  his 
fist." 

At  Puerto  Borja,  a  month  later,  Bellegarde  and  Alejandro, 
in  the  dining-room  of  The  Ines  were  seated  at  the  table,  after 
having  gone  through  a  very  hot  day,  refreshed  by  a  bath,  and 
with  the  pleasure  of  great  thoughts,  with  the  satisfaction  that 
comes  from  a  victorious  fight,  were  breathing  the  cool  air 
that  came  from  the  forest,  the  fresh  breeze  that  ascended  from 
the  river,  and  their  musings  were  just  as  rosy  and  vast  as  the 
horizon  before  their  eyes. 

The  sun  was  going  down,  and  after  so  much  bustle  during 
the  day  everything  became  calm.  The  clatter  and  noise  of  the 
colony  seemed  to  vanish  in  the  distance.  There  reigned  around 
the  vessel  a  silence  only  interrupted  by  the  clucking  of  the 
water  that  came  lapping  against  the  sides  of  the  ship.  The  tints 
of  twilight  floated  in  the  air,  gathered  over  the  waters  of  the 
Magdalena,  with  fleeting  opalescent  glints. 

Over  the  river  were  cruising  serenely  some  flocks  of  herons, 
which  afterwards  flew  off  to  near-by  pools,  where  they  went 
to  mirror  themselves  in  the  still  water. 

Suddenly  the  surrounding  space  became  aflame,  and  every- 
thing wrapped  in  a  pink  vapor.  The  rocks  seemed  of  red 


214  PAX 

marble.  The  chains  flashed  like  molten  iroru  The  river 
rolled  waves  of  flame.  The  fronds  of  the  palms  became 
plumes  of  scarlet.  The  foliage  all  about  began  to  resemble 
flags  of  crimson,  and  the  dripping  cables  were  distilling  drops 
of  fire.  The  stay-ropes  on  the  dredgers,  still  wet,  stretched 
skywards  like  giant  arms  dipped  in  blood. 

A  whistle  was  heard,  and  its  echo  was  lost  in  the  depths 
of  the  forest.  Then,  the  clamor  of  wheels  working  against 
the  current  of  the  river,  the  snorting  of  a  steamer.  It  is 
The  Bellegarde.  And  in  a  bend  of  the  river,  behind  a  veri- 
table grove  of  parasite  plants,  begin  to  loom  two  smoke-stacks, 
and  big  clouds  of  smoke.  A  turn  of  the  wheel,  again  sharp 
whistling,  and  the  ship  is  nearing  The  Ines.  The  commander 
of  the  vessel  takes  a  leap,  and  respectfully  touching  his  cap 
where  a  double  C  is  shining,  hands  to  Bellegarde  a  package 
of  letters. 

"  One  is  for  you,  Alejandro,"  says  the  Count. 

"Ah!"  says  Alejandro,  "it  is  from  Roberto,  news  from 
Bogota  ...  let  us  see!  " 

"Dear  Fausto:  I  am  kept  here  in  Santafe  for  the  last 
two  weeks,  after  four  weeks  of  rest  in  El  Sauzal,  in  a  peace 
which  I  cannot  call  Octavian,  but  rather  Ronderinerian.  But 
there  arrive  the  two  periodicals,  Let  Revaluation  and  La 
Integridad,  with  their  phrases  like  '  the  night  of  Nineveh,' 
and  something  about  *  those  of  the  mystery,'  etc.,  in  short,  at- 
tacks on  Ronderos,  on  the  canalization  project,  on  the  govern- 
ment, on  Bellegarde,  on  us.  So  I  came.  I  found  hostile  at- 
mosphere here.  There  are  people  who  have  been  impressed 
with  the  article  by  Sanchez  Mendez,  '  An  Abyss  without  Bot- 
tom '  (as  if  he  knew  any  abysses  with  bottom).  Gonzalez 
Mogollon,  the  unwitting  propagandist,  went  through  all  the 
stores,  with  a  flushed  face,  gesticulating,  and  repeated  in  his 
shrieking  manner  the  sensational  phrase  of  the  article :  '  We 
will  not  omit  saying  that  there  is  in  this  contract  a  stinger, 
and  lying  in  ambush  beyond  a  field  full  of  brambles  there  are 
the  articles  and  the  ticklish  matter  of  the  commas.  .  .  .  And 
then,  in  a  voice  rougher  than  ever  he  shouts,  without  under- 
standing in  the  least  the  Latin  saying:  Abisus  abisum.  .  .  . 

"  I  thought  it  proper  to  have  a  talk  with  General  Ronderos. 
I  found  him  at  the  ministry,  nervous,  not  communicative,  and 


TWILIGHT  215 

I  saw  his  good  faith,  his  love  for  his  country  thus  repaid. 
He  fingered  his  mustache,  silently.  Then  he  had  Dr.  Alcon 
called  in,  who  entered  livid.  *  Doctor  Alcon,'  he  asked  him, 
showing  him  a  copy  of  La  Integridad,  '  are  these  your  articles  ?  ' 
'  No,  General,  they  are  not  mine,'  replied  the  other  drily. 
*  They're  not  yours  ? '  And  here  Ronderos  drew  from  the 
pocket  of  his  coat  a  roll  of  manuscript.  '  They're  not  yours  ? 
See  here  the  original  of  your  letter.'  (Gacharnah  had  sent 
them.)  Alcon,  caught,  backs  out,  glances  behind  him,  and 
leans  back  against  a  table.  And  Ronderos,  slapping  his  face 
with  the  papers,  upbraids  him  for  his  falsehoods  and  his  treach- 
ery. He  points  out  that  Alcon  belongs  at  the  same  time  to 
the  Government  and  to  the  opposition  .  .  .  '  but  I  leave  that 
to  the  reader's  consideration,'  as  Dona  Aura  would  say  under 
similar  circumstances.  The  thoughts  and  the  words  struck 
against  the  bald  head  of  Alcon  like  hail.  It  was  a  tempest 
above  a  cranium.  '  You,'  he  continued  with  that  military 
bruskness  we  know  of,  '  you,  who  were  of  the  opposition,  I 
bring  here,  name  you  my  assistant  so  that  you  should  see  for 
yourself,  hour  for  hour,  that  nothing  underhanded  or  un- 
worthy is  going  on  here.  You  yourself  formulated,  altered,  one 
by  one,  the  paragraphs  of  this  contract,  .  .  .  and  now,  with- 
out your  signature,  you  speak  of  hidden  tricks  and  of  the 
intricate  points  of  the  commas.  ...  I  have  looked  for  the 
enemies  in  front,  in  the  encampments.  ...  I  prefer  frank  and 
outspoken  adversaries,  like  Polanco,  like  Cardoso,  whom  I  have 
fought  in  open  battle.  .  .  .  But  this,  .  .  .  but  this  .  .  .  you 
are  an  enemy  in  the  rear,  who  fights  from  ambush,  a  con- 
temptible slanderer  ...  a  hawk  ...  a  treacherous  bird  of 
prey.  From  anybody  else  I  should  demand  resignation,  but 
you  I  simply  remove  because  of  an  indignity.'  Alcon  left  the 
room  as  green  as  an  erotic  poem  by  S.  C.  Mata. 

"  That  night,  according  to  what  Gonzalez  Mogollon  re- 
ported,—  he  who  reports  everything  —  there  was  held  a  great 
meeting  at  the  office  of  La  Integridad.  The  General  Staff  of 
the  Integrist  party  congratulated  Alcon  and  told  him  that  this 
occurrence  had  made  him  the  man  of  the  hour.  Indeed  they 
wired  everywhere  detailing  the  facts.  Alcon  became  in  articles 
and  telegrams  '  the  immolated  victim,'  the  '  man  of  the  day,' 
and  one  meeting,  containing  an  *  integrista  '  majority,  elected 


216  PAX 

him  senator.  On  the  other  hand,  a  second  meeting  has  nom- 
inated you  for  pater  conscriptus.  You  will  have  Alcon  in  the 
curulean  chair  adjoining,  and  myself  on  the  other  side. 

"  To  come:  the  benefit  of  Signora  Rondinelli  will  take  place 
soon,  with  Aida.  Inside  of  two  weeks  there  will  be  races. 
You  are  nominated  judge  at  the  race-tracks.  Mata,  the  divine 
singer,  has  just  published  a  volume  of  verses.  By  the  next 
post,  or  by  a  reliable  person,  I'll  '  not '  send  you  this  volume, 
which  is  entitled  *  Alder  Trees  and  Stones.' 

"  Greetings  for  Bellegarde.  Tell  him  that  I  shall  soon  be 
with  him.  I  believe  that  sea  level  agrees  better  with  me  than 
the  climate  in  these  high  altitudes.  Sebastian  charges  me  to 
write  you  a  text  of  good  augury  which  might  serve  as  a  coun- 
terweight, now  that  peace  seems  certain,  in  lieu  of  the  one 
that  was  cited  in  the  midst  of  anxieties  caused  by  political 
agitation,  on  the  first  of  January  at  the  house  of  Aunt  Teresa: 
'  I  shall  water  the  seed  of  peace,  and  then  the  earth  will  give 
its  fruits,  the  vine  its  grapes,  and  Heaven  its  dew.' >: 

Alejandro  and  Bellegarde  thus  read,  seated  in  the  cabin  of 
the  steamer,  this  interesting  letter,  by  the  light  of  the  lamp 
around  which  the  wings  of  insects,  butterflies,  beetles  of  pe- 
culiar form,  produced  a  continual  buzzing  and  humming. 

The  night  was  serene.  Bellegarde  wanted  to  go  down  sev- 
eral leagues  in  order  to  prepare  early  in  the  morning  some  par- 
ticular pieces  of  labor  along  the  dam.  They  lighted  the  ship's 
lantern,  which  threw  shafts  of  brilliant  light  upon  the  river,  and 
the  steamer  began  to  slip  away,  brushing  some  groups  of  trees 
between  whose  leaves  were  dancing  innumerable  fireflies.  On 
the  shores  bunches  of  alligators  were  forming  which,  at  the  ap- 
proach of  the  vessel,  avoided  it,  grunting  and  plunging  into 
the  water. 

Suddenly  the  steamer  turned.  It  stopped  a  moment;  the 
wheel  moved  quite  slowly.  A  negro  sprang  into  the  water, 
swam  with  the  rope  between  his  teeth;  arrived  at  the  shore, 
and  climbing  briskly  up  the  bank,  he  tied  the  rope  around 
a  tree  trunk.  The  vessel  brushed  against  the  side  of  a  high 
rock  which  dominated  the  opening  of  the  spit  of  land.  Then 
she  emitted  dense  clouds  of  steam,  and  the  engine  stopped  its 
labor.  The  crew  were  on  deck,  and  were  trying  to  sleep  lulled 


S.  C.  MAT  A  217 

by  the  rushing  water  of  the  current  and  the  murmuring  of 
the  immense  tropical  wilds. 

The  two  friends,  harassed  by  the  excessive  heat,  were  unable 
to  find  rest,  and  continued  conversing  and  reading  their  period- 
icals until  the  middle  of  the  night. 

A  noise  on  the  roof  of  their  cabin,  above  the  deck,  made  them 
interrupt  their  reading.  A  body  which  struck  with  great  force, 
and  soft  pads  of  feet  stopping  now  and  then,  but  always  re- 
newed, though  with  great  caution,  just  like  the  steps  of  a  thief 
who  deadens  his  footfalls;  and  then,  tumult,  clamor,  scratch- 
ings,  something  which  clung  to  the  metal  edge  of  the  sky- 
light, caused  them  disquiet.  Bellegarde,  in  dismay,  hurriedly 
seized  the  deck  lamp,  and  both  gently  went  up  the  stairs 
leading  to  the  deck.  The  light  of  the  lamp  was  thrown  in 
spots  on  the  trees,  and  painted  dancing  shadows  on  their  foliage. 
They  crossed  the  deck  in  the  direction  of  the  poop,  and 
held  their  lantern  high.  And  then  only  they  espied  a  big 
bulk,  eyes  which  glowed  like  red-hot  coal,  a  hide  which  re- 
flected a  yellowish  sheen,  ...  it  was  a  tiger,  growling  and 
holding  on  to  a  big  chunk  of  meat;  that  moment  it  had 
reached  the  edge  of  the  deck,  measured  for  an  instant  the  in- 
tervening distance,  crouched  and  then  with  a  mighty  leap 
reached  the  bank  of  the  river,  disappearing  in  the  darkness. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Count,"  said  Alejandro,  while  the  big  out- 
lines of  the  beast  became  visible  again  at  the  border  of  the 
forest,  "  that  is  our  mission:  put  the  tigers  to  flight  .  .  .  frighten 
barbarism  away,  encouraged  by"~the  words  of  a  text  which 
Sebastian  sent  us :  'I  shall  scatter  the  seed  of  peace,  .  .  . 
and  then  the  earth  will  yield  her  fruits.'  " 


CHAPTER  XXII 

S.    C.    MATA 

ENTERING  her  box  Dolores,  disengaging  herself  from  her  silk 
mantle,  blinked,  her  eyes  dazzled  by  the  wave  of  brilliant 
light  that  poured  from  the  ceiling  and  inundated  the  whole 
theater,  reflected  from  the  pillars  and  caryatids. 


2i8  PAX 

It  was  the  benefit  night  of  la  Rondinelli,  and  A'ida  was  be- 
ing performed. 

Montellano,  who  had  been  accustomed  to  retire  at  eight 
sharp,  had  never  taken  Dolores  to  the  theater  before  his  mar- 
riage with  Dona  Aura.  But  now,  urged  on  by  the  poetess,  he 
went  from  time  to  time  in  order  to  accompany  with  his  yawns 
the  terrific  rumblings  of  the  bass  viol,  and  the  passionate  notes 
of  the  tenor  and  the  primadonna. 

Installed  in  her  seat  Dolores,  somewhat  confused  and  feel- 
ing her  heart  beat  with  a  mixture  of  happiness  and  anxiety, 
picked  up  her  opera  glass  and  passed  in  review  the  body  of 
the  house  where  the  shining  baldheads  were  in  the  majority. 
Then  she  directed  her  attention  towards  the  row  of  boxes  and 
saw  filing  past  her  lenses  those  erect  busts,  those  heads  which 
bowed,  those  meaningless  motions  and  gestures,  mouths  which 
smiled  to  neighbors  that  did  not  come  within  the  radius  of 
the  glasses,  the  movement,  the  agitation  of  this  assemblage  of 
people,  amidst  the  gleam  of  mother  of  pearl,  the  flashings  of 
diamonds,  the  scintillating  of  bracelets. 

Suddenly  she  perceived  Ines,  with  her  jessamine  pallor,  with 
her  statuesque  neck  that  supported  a  head  like  a  Greek  model. 
That  face  became  animated  for  a  moment,  and  the  eyes  lost 
their  sleepy  languor.  Dolores  sought  with  eagerness,  with  mis- 
givings, the  companion  of  Ines,  and  with  unspeakable  bliss 
saw  appear  in  the  lens  the  steely  eyes  and  virile  physiognomy 
of  Bellegarde.  And  Roberto?  She  scanned  carefully  the  boxes 
in  the  front  rows,  which  were  still  unoccupied,  let  the  glass 
travel  along  them,  and  a  sweet  emotion  swept  over  her  when 
there  at  last  she  discovered  the  pallid  face  of  Dona  Ana,  and 
with  her,  Roberto.  Then  she  turned  her  head  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  stage. 

She  saw  the  royal  palace  at  Memphis.  To  right  and  left  im- 
mense colonnades,  and  the  statues  of  the  gods:  Keth,  the 
divine  cat;  Ra,  the  great  god  of  the  kingdom;  Patch,  with 
her  lion's  head;  Apis,  the  bull -god,  the  most  sacred  of  all 
brutes.  In  the  background,  behind  huge  Egyptian  porticos, 
the  desert,  the  pyramids,  the  Sphinx. 

Amneris  and  Rhadames  have  begun  the  duet  of  apprehen- 
sion, of  palpitating  ardor;  Aida  advances  and  the  duet  be- 
comes a  trio.  The  orchestra  continues  the  same  theme,  but 


S.  C.  MATA  219 

interlacing  with  it  are  the  notes  of  Aida,  notes  which  are  pro- 
longed like  heavy  sighs  that  yet  reveal  ardor,  and  her  pro- 
found yet  resigned  love.  And  Dolores,  without  wanting  to, 
felt  these  notes  painfully  reverberate  in  her  breast,  treasuring 
the  knowledge  that  she  herself,  who  knew  this  love,  should  be 
able  to  give  to  the  melody  the  accent,  the  intention  that  Verdi 
had  put  into  it. 

There  came  the  aria  of  the  first  act,  which  la  Rondinelli 
interpreted  superbly,  enthusing  the  audience:  'the  tremendous 
struggle,  the  frightful  conflict  decided  in  the  breast  of  Aida 
between  love  and  patriotism,  that  aria  in  which  the  musical 
phrase  follows  and  shows  the  successive  grades  of  thought,  a 
perfect  expression  of  the  musical  drama  in  which  the  first  of 
the  modern  masters  has  contrived  to  wed  word  and  melody. 
The  electric  button  sounded  shrilly,  and  there  entered  Mata, 
with  hair  disheveled  and  with  eyes  glittering  hotly. 

"  Have  you  seen,  Senorita?  "  he  exclaimed  with  his  asthmatic 
voice,  and  rolling  his  bloodshot  eyes.  "  This  is  my  crea- 
tion, my  dream,  my  homesickness.  Only  the  souls  of  high- 
est flight  can  understand  us.  Perhaps  you  do  not  fathom  me; 
I  will  explain  to  you.  But  Verdi  and  I,  we  understand  each 
other.  Here  are  my  verses: 

"  I  want  my  lyre  to  give  forth  my  song, 
In  unison  with  the  mute  sphinx  which  gazes, 
And  in  the  hot  desert  which  mirrors  a  white  dream, 
I  would  be  the  eternal  bridegroom  of  the  sphinx. 

"  Senorita,  see  you  not  the  desert,  the  Sphinx,  the  gods  ?  Ah, 
genius!  Oh,  Verdi!  My  brother,  .  .  .  brother  of  my  soul!  " 

Mata  was  the  prey  of  an  extraordinary  exaltation.  His  at- 
tenuated limbs  trembled  with  a  feverish  convulsion.  In  his 
eyes,  where  the  frenzy  of  madness  raved,  there  were  tears. 

"  No,  there  is  nobody  here  to  understand  me,"  he  continued 
in  a  cavernous  voice,  and  he  went  on  declaiming: 

"  In  lieu  of  Cross  and  Latin  phrases  I  want  grand 
Emblems  on  my  tombstone,   with  letters  hieroglyphic; 

"  In  lieu  of  a  requiescat  in  Gothic  characters, 
I  want  those  suggestive  demotic  signs." 

And   as   though   oppressed  by   a  paroxysm  of  enthusiasm. 


220  PAX 

by  the  exuberance  of  genius,  he  fainted,  let  his  head  drop 
on  his  breast. 

Alcon,  with  his  light  overcoat  over  his  arm,  dressed  elegantly, 
went  out  to  the  vestibule,  climbed  the  flight  of  stairs,  and 
noted  with  satisfaction  in  passing,  that  several  groups  were 
whispering,  speaking  of  his  resignation,  of  his  grand  char- 
acter, exchanging  smiles,  greetings,  handshakes.  He  was  lost 
in  one  of  the  corridors.  He  went  over  to  where  the  locked  doors 
of  the  boxes  were,  looking  for  the  number  18,  and  while  he 
thus  went  on  past  the  numbers  10,  12,  14,  16,  he  felt  a  touch 
of  gratification  upon  appearing  again  before  Dolores,  not  as 
the  unknown  assistant  secretary,  but  as  the  audacious  man  of 
the  opposition  who  is  admired  by  coteries,  whom  the  enemies 
of  Ronderos  applaud,  whom  all  the  newspapers  are  babbling 
about.  Ah,  and  besides:  senator,  senator  for  the  Department 
of  Aguirre,  where  the  Assembly  with  its  opposition  major- 
ity has  at  last  recognized  his  name,  the  name  of  an  "  im- 
molated victim,"  of  a  martyrized  patriot,  to  launch  it  anew, 
like  a  challenge,  in  the  face  of  the  Government.  And  thus, 
surrounded  as  he  was  by  that  aureole  of  a  martyr,  a  patriot, 
of  a  looming  man  of  the  opposition,  doubtless  Dolores 
would  .  .  . 

"  Number  18  ...  here  it  is."  He  pressed  the  button,  driven 
to  this  by  a  habit  acquired  during  his  period  of  servitude,  when 
he  opened  the  door  of  the  ministry  with  apprehension  on  hear- 
ing the  little  bell  of  Ronderos,  and  he  was,  in  fact,  on  the  point 
of  saying  "  Senor  Minister,"  as  he  put  his  head  in  the  box. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Alcon,"  thundered  Montellano  inside.  "  Come 
in.  We  shall  somehow  manage  to  find  a  seat  for  you.  I  am 
somewhat  upset  by  the  state  of  mind  in  which  Mata  has  just 
now  left  us." 

He  had  really  taken  Mata  by  the  arm,  had  made  him  rise, 
and  he  now  made  room  for  Alcon.  His  bald  head  shone  like 
an  aureole,  for  it  was  like  a  flame.  His  false  smile  suffused 
his  face,  his  hawk-like  eyes  were  opened  wide,  and  flashed  from 
under  their  lids.  He  saw  that  from  below  in  the  theater  sev- 
eral opera  glasses  were  raised  to  contemplate  him,  and  he  there- 
fore moved  his  seat  quite  in  front.  He  no  longer  sought  the 
shade,  as  he  had  on  the  night  of  Werther,  but  rather  the 


S.  C.  MAT  A  221 

full  light,  the  apotheosis.  He  bent  down  to  the  ear  of  Do- 
lores. 

"  For  you  always  the  same,"  he  murmured.  "  Hm.  Hm," 
he  grunted.  "  The  same  for  me  is  a  matter  which  another. 
.  .  .  Always  your  devoted." 

In  the  foyer  had  been  prepared  a  theatrical  coup.  Landa- 
buro  with  several  other  friends  was  whispering  in  a  corner,  ob- 
serving his  entrance.  Alcon  presented  himself  with  his  over- 
coat on  his  arm,  directed  his  vacillating,  shortsighted  glance 
to  every  part  of  the  house,  and  at  last  met  the  eye  of  Landa- 
buro.  Then  he  came  forward.  Mutual  exclamations  of  pleas- 
ure, of  surprise.  "Doctor!"  "General!"  The  two  poli- 
ticians met  in  the  very  middle  of  the  parlor  adjoining  the 
foyer,  and  rushed  towards  each  other,  with  open  arms,  where- 
upon they  embraced  with  a  show  of  frenzy. 

"  Doctor  Alcon,  in  the  name  of  the  Revaluation  Party  I 
congratulate  you  that  you  do  not  follow  the  politics  of  the 
closed  door." 

"  General  Landaburo,  in  the  name  of  the  group  of  Im- 
maculates  I  salute  in  you  the  champion  of  Liberty." 

Thus  these  two. 

Those  standing  near  became  strangely  affected.  At  first 
a  mute  agitation  set  in.  Then  voices  were  heard.  These  were 
dominated  by  the  gruff  organ  of  Gonzalez  Mogollon,  who  went 
from  group  to  group,  shouting: 

"  Fine.  This  is  very  touching.  It  is  a  league  of  men  who 
count.  We  have  peace  for  twenty  years.  .  .  .  With  the  con- 
cessions and  kisses  there  is,  there  must  be  an  end  of  the  old 
injustice.  .  .  .  Look  at  my  tears.  ...  I  am  moved.  .  .  ." 

And  in  the  foyer,  attracted  by  all  this  hubbub,  there  came  con- 
stantly from  elsewhere  a  stream  of  people:  men  of  the  opposi- 
tion, neutral  persons,  curious  persons  merely,  and  all  of  them, 
exciting  each  other  more  and  more  each  instant,  infecting  each 
other  under  the  influence  of  this  enthusiasm,  of  this  hatred; 
and  there  began  first  a  murmur  which  grew  and  grew,  grew 
like  an  avalanche,  then  turned  into  cries  and  shouts  of  ap- 
plause, into  ebullitions  of  indignation,  of  banter,  of  men- 
ace: 

"Bravo!  .      .  Three  cheers   for   Alcon!  .      .  Three   cheers 


222  PAX 

for  Landaburo!  .  .  .  Down  with  Ronderos!  .  .  .  Death  to 
him!  " 

Landaburo  whispered  within  the  hearing  of  his  friends: 

"  Day  after  to-morrow,  let  every  one,  without  fail,  appear 
at  the  bar  of  the  senate  .  .  .  afterwards  a  great  meeting  .  .  . 
let  us  get  busy!  " 

On  the  stage  it  is  the  triumph  of  Rhadames.  One  sees  the 
royal  throne.  The  great  crowd  is  running  about  like  ants.  In 
the  rear  is  visible  the  street,  in  gala  attire,  ready  to  receive  the 
hero.  The  orchestra  strikes  up  the  tune  of  a  march,  wherein 
the  flutes  and  the  other  soft  instruments  are  stilled,  and  strident 
fanfares  are  heard.  Trumpets  and  horns  blare  a  tune,  simple 
and  almost  monotonous,  with  three  notes  dominating  in  the 
rhythm  full  of  Oriental  fire,  like  a  battle  cry  of  implacable 
furor,  and  the  victorious  army  advances  in  broad  defile. 

The  trumpets  pass  into  a  new  stirring  tune,  in  which  the 
stamping  and  martial  confusion  of  heralds  are  mingled,  slaves 
in  groups,  Nubians  and  Ethiopians  come  on,  their  ebony  arms 
weighed  down  by  chains.  A  throng  of  Egyptian  servants,  their 
arms  dyed  red,  girt  with  wreaths,  are  there.  New  trumpets, 
and  the  three  clamorous  notes  still  piercing  the  air  like  an 
implacable  shout  of  combat.  Filing  across  the  scene  are  hosts 
of  warriors,  laden  with  warlike  booty,  trophies,  heaps  of  naked 
swords  and  burnished  shields  which  glitter  in  the  glaring  sun 
of  the  Orient.  High  up  the  mystical  standards,  papyrus  scrolls 
covered  with  hieroglyphics.  More  trumpets,  with  the  march 
tune  of  three  notes  again  urging  the  folk  with  their  rude  rhythm. 
There  come  processions  of  priests,  of  scribes,  with  long  beard, 
erect  head,  majestic  in  their  carriage,  in  their  emblematic  and 
ceremonious  gestures.  And  yet  the  pitiless  three  notes  are  cry- 
ing out  for  war,  for  bloodshed,  each  time  one  note  higher. 

Rocking  above  the  enormous  throng  appear,  escorted  by  war- 
riors, the  idols,  upon  the  shoulders  of  priests,  carried  on  biers 
covered  with  silk. 

Roberto  had,  after  much  persistence,  been  induced  to  ac- 
company his  mother  to  the  theater.  Her  pallor,  her  gray  hair, 
contrasted  strongly  with  the  red  background.  To  see  Roberto 
recovered,  cheerful,  and  happy;  to  think  that  their  fortune  was 
no  longer  in  danger,  and  to  recall  those  evening  strolls  in  El 


S.  C.  MATA  223 

Sauzal  when  the  future  of  Roberto  and  Ines  seemed  definitely 
fixed,  had  diminished  the  expression  of  sadness  and  pain  which 
had  impressed  itself  so  strongly  upon  the  old  lady's  features. 
Sometimes  even  a  flash  of  cheerfulness,  a  smile  spread  a  tint 
of  pink  over  the  pallid  forehead.  And  on  this  particular  night, 
enlivened  by  the  music,  by  those  currents  of  pleasure  and  en- 
thusiasm which  ran  through  the  numerous  audience,  she  had 
broken  her  habitual  silence,  had  become  talkative,  and  some- 
what animated. 

"  I  understand  no  other  music  than-  the  Italian,"  she  was 
saying  to  Bellegarde.  "  When  I  saw  my  first  opera,  on  coming 
to  Bogota,  nothing  else  was  sung  but  Norma,  Lucia,  II  Tro- 
vatore,  La  Traviata,  and  my  admiration,  my  affection  have 
remained  attached  to  that  music.  It  recalls  to  me  the  only 
happy  period  of  my  life,  and  whenever  I  hear  those  selections, 
those  melodies,  I  seem  to  be  living  once  more  in  the  past, 
which  brings  to  life  a  dead  world,  and  I  feel  young,  I  see 
everything  rose  color,  and  I  think  that,  after  all,  life  is  a 
story  which  ends  well." 

"  But,  mother,"  rejoined  Roberto,  enchanted  and  relieved  to 
see  her  thus,  her  troubles  forgotten,  taking  up  these  subjects 
of  art  and  music,  contemplating  that  smile  on  his  mother's  lips 
which  a  short  while  ago  seemed  to  have  forever  fled.  "  But, 
mother,  you  do  not  know  Wagner,  nor  that  suggestive  orchestral 
music  which  is  the  decoration,  that  landscape  which  unrolls 
the  scenes,  those  passions  which  sing  in  the  human  voice." 

"  My  son,  I  am  already  too  old  to  understand  these  mat- 
ters. I  do  not  comprehend  how  one  can  possibly  translate 
rocks,  plains,  the  day,  the  night,  solitude  into  chords,  symphon- 
ies." 

"Why  not?  Listen  now*,  for  instance,  dearest  mother,  do 
you  hear  this  embalmed  silence  which  floats  above  the  dreams 
of  Aida,  this  tremolo  of  the  flutes  that  makes  you  think  of  soli- 
tude and  peace  ?  " 

"  But  since  I  do  not  see  it,  neither  do  I  feel  it.  And  since 
this  is  so  I  do  not  believe  that  Wagner  has  invented  anything 
which  Verdi  has  not  equally  expressed.  Verdi  I  do  under- 
stand. If  you  only  knew,"  she  went  on,  casting  a  glance  at  both 
Alejandro  and  Belegarde  who  were  listening  to  her,  "if  you 


224 

only  knew  how  much  in  my  time  we  used  to  weep  with  Traviata. 
.  .  .  How  is  it  that  Wagner  has  never  made  anybody  weep 
like  that?" 

The  door  was  opened  and  Mata  appeared. 

"  My  lady,  Roberto,  dear  Count,"  he  said.  "  Did  you  see 
that  triumphal  scene?  And  the  gods?  And  Egypt?  Did  you 
hear,  did  you  understand  this  moonlight  scene  in  C  major? 
That  grandiose  sentiment,  the  impetus  of  death,  the  repose  in 
the  reunion  of  these  ancient  Egyptian  gods,  .  .  .  that  was 
what  inflamed  my  genius,  it  was  that  which  grand  old  Verdi 
has  represented  in  his  opera.  .  .  .  Oh,  the  Egyptian  home- 
sickness! Break  the  lyre,  die  jointly  with  the  Sphinx! 

"  Ra  veils  there  my  dream,  Ra  the  great  god  of  the  dominion, 
That   sleep   of   the  mummy,   of  which   Pliny   tells   us. 

"  And   Keth,    the    divine   cat,    accompanies   me    also, 
With  her  eyes  of  phosphorus  and  her  demure  smile. 

"  And  cover  me  with  shadow  and  the  imperial  idea 
Of  Patch,  who  with  her  leonine  head  grins, 
And  with  the  ox-like  Apis,  the  most  sacred  of  biutes.  .  .  ." 

"  Thou  art,"  said  Roberto,  "  he  who  has  eyes  of  phosphorus, 
and  who  grins, —  the  most  sacred  of  brutes." 

"Nobody  understands  me!  Nobody  understands  me!  "  ex- 
claimed Mata,  and  like  a  breath,  with  extravagant  gestures,  he 
left  the  box. 

The  act  was  over. 

In  the  midst  of  scenery,  surrounded  by  a  great  tumult, 
priests,  soldiers,  slaves  were  gathering  in  a  corner  the  heathen 
gods  that  had  done  duty  at  the  triumph  of  Rhadames.  There 
remained  the  ox,  Apis,  right  below  the  goddess  Osiris.  Patch 
and  Ra  had  been  sunk  to  the  regions  below,  together  with 
stacks  of  lotus  flowers  and  ears  of  corn.  Keth,  the  divine 
cat,  could  be  discovered  amongst  monoliths  inscribed  with 
demotic  characters.  As  the  last  of  all  there  advanced  across 
the  wooden  floor  the  Sphinx,  which  then  was  placed  together 
with  the  gods  in  the  dark  nook  where  nobody  cared  about 
them. 

The  high  priests  were  smoking.  The  Ethiopian  slaves  were 
emptying  glasses  of  beer.  The  prisoners  of  war,  with  paste- 


S.  C.  MATA  225 

board  chains,  were  using  improper  language  in  Italian.  In 
the  half-light,  among  a  combination  of  noises,  hammer  blows, 
thumping,  chatter,  commanding  voices  and  the  distant  uproar 
of  the  spectators,  the  stage  hands,  sweating,  are  coming,  going, 
shouting,  hoisting  with  ropes  pieces  of  linen  or  gauze,  and 
Egyptian  columns. 

The  last  act  begins.  The  bell  sounds.  The  first  notes  of 
the  orchestra  are  heard.  Everybody  returns  to  his  seat.  They 
are  awaiting  with  eagerness  the  moment  when  la  Rondinelli  will 
appear  again.  The  change  of  scenery  takes  place.  The  tem- 
ple is  shown  enwrapped  in  a  light  which,  coming  down  from  a 
mysterious  height,  falls  upon  the  idol  in  the  rear,  bathes  its  head 
and  shoulders,  and  diminishes  at  last,  being  finally  extinguished 
in  a  bluish  semi-obscurity,  at  the  foot  of  the  columns  which 
hide  between  the  shadows  of  the  crypt.  Choruses  of  high 
priests  and  of  priestesses,  moving  in  union  intone  before  the 
idol  a  primitive  and  monotonous  chant,  resembling  a  lullaby 
before  a  cradle. 

Then  Rhadames  appears.  He  is  going  to  die,  already  sen- 
tenced, entombed  in  the  crypt.  The  warrior  descends  to  the 
cavern.  He  moves  the  stone.  Rhadames  remains  buried.  A 
tragic  clash  with  the  cymbals,  which  falls  and  loses  itself  in 
the  profundities  of  the  orchestra,  as  though  it  descended  into 
the  darkness  of  the  crypt.  Then,  a  silence  of  fear,  and  one 
feels  Death  passing. 

During  an  intermission,  like  an  echo  of  profound  pain,  like 
an  accent  of  irrevocable  mourning,  the  violins  in  the  middle 
range  played  the  prelude  to  the  theme: 

O,  terra,  addio!     (Oh  Earth,  farewell!) 

The  lament  spreads,  rises  to  the  temple,  and  dies  at  the 
feet  of  the  indifferent  gods. 

Up  on  high,  in  the  light,  the  assembly  chants  the  religious 
lullaby.  Down  in  the  depths,  in  the  shadows,  Rhadames  is 
sobbing:  "Addio,  o  voile  di  pianto"  .  .  .  (Farewell,  O  vale 
of  tears.) 

Mata  had  applied  another  injection  to  himself.  Those 
mummy  arms  of  his,  "  of  which  Pliny  has  told  us,"  showed  sev- 
eral ulcers  already.  But  he  required  at  this  moment  all  his  cour- 
age, for  he  meant  to  confess  his  passion  to  la  Rondinelli.  As 
the  act  had  already  finished,  she  was  in  her  tiny  dressing- 


226  PAX 

room,  awaiting  her  call  for  the  stage.  She  was  alone,  seated 
near  the  bell.  Her  massive  golden  braids  hung  that  night 
over  face  and  shoulders  touched  up  with  black  and  brown,  and 
her  arms,  too,  were  of  a  dusky  hue,  as  well  as  neck,  and  face, 
so  that  the  whites  of  her  eyes  contrasted  strangely.  Her  ordi- 
narily expressionless  glance,  the  humid  and  vague  glance  of 
a  cow,  had  at  this  instant,  thanks  to  this  contrast,  an  expres- 
sion, a  brilliancy  which  were  quite  startling.  She  was  try- 
ing before  her  looking-glass  that  gaze  full  of  intense  affection 
which  she  meant  to  bestow  on  her  lover  as  she  entered  the 
crypt.  Mata,  in  his  madness,  thought  that  this  glance  was 
meant  for  him,  clutched  the  soles  of  her  feet,  and  seized  her 
hand, 

"  Pearl  of  Italy,"  he  exclaimed  in  heart-rending  accents,  "  I 
love  you !  " 

"  But  /  do  not  love  you"  said  la  Rondinelli,  with  a  burst  of 
laughter.  And  then,  seeing  he  did  not  let  go  of  her  hand,  but 
on  the  contrary  covered  it  with  kisses,  she  rose  with  a  supercili- 
ous look,  her  expression  changed  to  veritable  rage,  and  with 
accent  and  gesture  in  which  the  ideal  woman  had  entirely  dis- 
appeared, and  the  daughter  of  kings  had  become  an  ordinary 
woman  of  the  gutter,  the  woman  from  the  purlieus  of  Venice, 
she  exclaimed: 

"  Via  di  qua!     Get  out  of  here!  " 

And  just  then  the  call  boy  appeared  to  warn  her  that  the 
time  had  come  to  make  her  entrance  on  the  stage. 

Rhadames,  buried  alive,  awaited  her  in  the  crypt.  She, 
again  with  composed  features,  had  assumed  an  expression  of 
sweetness,  of  resignation,  of  infinite  affection,  as  she  made  her 
way  through  the  wings. 

Just  one  moment  later,  at  the  same  point  where  Aida  had 
entered,  an  arm  began  to  show,  and  then  a  sharp  detonation 
was  heard. 

"What  has  broken?  .  .  .  What  instrument  has  burst?  .  .  . 
What  fell  on  the  scenery?  "... 

Such  were  the  questions  asked  by  the  audience.  Some  turned 
their  heads  or  searched  the  stage  with  their  eyes.  Nothing.  .  .  . 
And  they  turned  once  more  absorbed  to  the  final  picture,  to 
the  entrancing  music. 

The  opera  finished  serenely,  in  full  peace.     Up  above;  in 


S.  C.  MATA  227 

the  full  light  of  the  temple,  the  religious  ceremonies  went  on 
imperturbably.  Below,  in  the  asphyxiating  crypt,  two  human 
beings  were  dying. 

"  My  dear  mother,"  said  Roberto,  addressing  Dona  Ana, 
who  was  entranced  by  the  music,  "  that  duet  is  not  a  dialogue, 
but  an  exchange  of  souls.  .  .  .  What  economy  and  yet  what 
wealth !  Wagner  never  accomplished  similar  effects  with  means 
so  simple.  Here  the  orchestra  is  neither  the  slave  nor  the 
tyrant  of  the  singer.  It  is  what  ought  to  be:  his  ally,  his 
friend,  his  sister." 

There  swept  overhead  through  the  wide  space,  like  wounded 
birds,  reminiscences  of  the  ancient  songs  of  love  and  glory. 
In  the  temple  there  continued  those  monotonous  chants, —  a 
somnolent  monorhythm.  In  the  depths  the  two  lovers  per- 
ished slowly  from  lack  of  air.  The  music  keeps  on  in  its 
quaking,  trembling  measure,  full  of  dolorous  effect,  and  those 
two  tunes,  the  religious  cradle  song  up  above,  and  the  death 
hymn  in  the  sepulcher,  are  floating  on  and  mingling,  are 
dying  away  in  the  profundities  of  the  crypt. 

Addio,  oh  terra; 

Addio,   oh   valle   di   pianto. 

Mata  had  believed  that  by  committing  suicide  on  the  stage, 
by  this  last  addio,  he  would  reach  the  sublime,  the  paroxysm  of 
the  tragic.  He  thought  that  all  the  spectators  would  throw 
themselves  at  his  feet,  pleading,  sorrowing,  waving  their  hats, 
calling  for  help,  offering  him  the  tribute  of  their  tears.  He 
had  fancied  that  Ines  would  feel  dismay  in  her  box,  while 
Dolores  would  be  sobbing  aloud,  and  that  la  Rondinelli, 
Rhadames,  the  high  priests,  the  by-standers,  forming  a  medley 
of  different  epochs  and  garments,  would  crowd  around  those 
bleeding  remains  of  his,  exclaiming,  with  amazement,  anxiety, 
and  admiration,  "  Yes,  it  is  Mata,  ...  it  is  Mata  the  Divine 
...  his  genius  has  been  his  death.  .  .  ." 

But  instead  of  falling  towards  the  right,  towards  the  light, 
in  full  view  of  the  audience,  he  fell  towards  the  left,  in  the  semi- 
obscurity  of  a  narrow,  unlighted  passage,  amid  the  scenery. 
A  scene  shifter,  being  on  the  point  of  removing  some  piece, 
thought  that  he  had  stumbled  against  some  drunken  fellow, 
seized  him  by  the  feet,  and  without  paying  attention  to  the 


228  PAX 

scarlet  drops  he  left  behind  in  his  track,  shoved  him  into  a 
dark  corner,  between  the  trumpets,  the  tinsel  and  the  gods  of  the 
show.  The  opera  over,  he  left  the  theater  vacant.  A  darkish 
streamlet  which  filtered  through  the  wings,  the  thin  rays  of 
light  that  illuminated  but  dimly  the  pieces  of  scenery  showing 
the  Nile,  the  desert,  the  Sphinx,  was  all  that  was  left.  The 
Ox-God,  Apis,  the  goddess  Keth  tricked  out  in  corn  spikes, 
Patch  with  her  catlike  smile,  they  had  between  them  a  rigid 
body,  clutching  hands,  a  still,  pale  face,  a  thin  line  of  blood 
which  dripped  from  the  shattered  skull  to  the  breast,  a  mouth 
that  was  twisted  into  a  grin  of  silent  reproach,  and  an  eye  that 
had  been  torn  by  the  bullet  from  its  socket  and  hung  down 
the  greenish  cheeks.  .  .  . 

Mata,  the  godlike,  the  incomprehensible  and  misunderstood 
genius,  thus  concluded  his  longing  for  things  Egyptian,  and 
slept  his  last  sleep  closa  to  the  mute  Sphinx. 

They  shall  not  put  me  within  four  rectangular  boards, 
Such  as  they  put   Christians  in  in  their  straight  tombs; 

Ra  watches  here  over  my  sleep;   Ra,   the  great  god  of  dominion, 
That  long  mummy  sleep  whereof  Pliny  tells  us. 

And  me  also  accompanies  Keth,  divinest  of  cats 
With  her  lambent  eyes  and  demure  smile. 

I  want  my  song  to  break  my  lyre, 

Joined   to  the  mute   Sphinx   that   gazes  .  .  .  gazes  .  .  .  gazes.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

ALONDRA 

CARRIAGE  after  carriage,  their  doors  shining,  fur  skins  spread 
over  their  boxes,  were  rolling  along  the  highroad  that  led  to  the 
race-track.  The  ribbons  of  the  ladies  fluttered  and  shone, 
and  their  pretty  dresses  hung  over  the  open  doors  of  the 
vehicles.  In  the  rays  of  the  cheerful  July  sun  the  satins  and 
silks  were  resplendent,  steeped  in  colors  that  looked  as  though 
set  aflame  with  brightness.  Parties  of  horsemen  having  made 


ALONDRA  229 

the  pavement  lively  with  the  hoofbeats  of  their  steeds,  now 
turned  into  the  wide  avenue.  The  tramways  were  crowded  with 
people  of  every  walk  of  life.  Wrapped  in  clouds  of  dust  gilt  by 
the  sunlight,  amidst  a  perfect  shower  of  ringing  bells,  the 
rattle  of  harness,  the  creaking  of  thin  boards,  gay,  noisy, 
with  bursts  of  laughter,  there  came  advancing  afoot  a  mighty 
wave  of  people  which  seemed  like  an  ant  heap,  which  pushed 
and  spread  in  an  overabundance  of  life  and  merriment. 

Amongst  a  group  of  horsemen  came  Landaburo,  erect,  solemn, 
magnificent,  certain  that  the  multitude  kept  their  glances  fast- 
ened upon  him,  and  approaching  one  of  his  intimates,  he 
said: 

"  We  have  made  a  mistake.  We  ought  not  to  lose  an  op- 
portunity to  stir  the  imagination  of  the  masses.  One  must 
keep  the  throng  under  the  charm  of  admiration.  It  is  absolutely 
necessary  that  one  of  us  run  a  race  to-day,  that  some  one  of  our 
party  win  the  race  of  honor.  I  have  been  looking  for  one 
who  would  better  be  able  to  score  that  success  and  triumph. 
But  I  think  I  can  do  it.  Let  the  multitude  become  convinced 
that  I  can  with  equal  facility,  with  equal  dash,  wield  the 
sword,  the  pen,  the  jockey  whip.  The  Greeks  and  the  Romans 
did  not  disdain  these  games.  .  .  .  Yes,  it  is  necessary  that  I 
at  all  risks  try  my  luck  with  El  Condor,  the  horse  which  lately 
has  won  nearly  all  races.  And  if  I  only  can  win  with  him, 
our  success  is  certain.  It  will  be  well  to  take  proper  steps 
that  there  is  afterwards,  among  the  friends  of  the  people,  an 
ovation,  a  great  ovation." 

And  lowering  his  voice,  he  added  in  a  tone  of  mystery: 

"  Friends,  some  day  we  shall  show  ourselves  in  different 
guise,  below  triumphal  arches,  with  the  people  at  our  feet, 
and  holding  the  hearts  and  the  admiring  looks  of  fair  ladies." 

The  clatter  of  wheels  and  the  roar  of  men  and  horses  dead- 
ened his  words,  and  they  reached  only  the  ears  of  his  intimate 
friends. 

In  front  there  extended,  as  far  as  eye  could  reach,  a  file  of 
coaches  and  light  carriages,  on  which  the  whips  and  hats  of 
the  drivers  were  clearly  perceptible.  The  drivers  were  decked 
out  in  sashes  of  gay  colors,  amidst  a  big  veil  of  dust  that  the 
sun  rendered  luminous.  There,  in  a  handsome  victoria,  with 
their  peculiar  mark  of  distinction,  were  Dona  Ana  and  Dona 


230  PAX 

Teresa,  quite  in  black.  And  at  their  side,  Ines,  who  wore  a 
dress  of  purple  cloth,  entirely  without  adornment  of  any  kind, 
but  which  in  its  extreme  simplicity  served  to  emphasize  the 
elegance  of  her  figure.  Before  them,  Roberto  and  Alejandro, 
in  a  coach  to  which  a  team  of  spirited  sorrel  horses  was 
harnessed. 

"  Mon  cher,"  said  Alejandro  to  Roberto,  while  shortening 
the  reins,  "  I  rejoice  in  my  soul  that  you  have  presented 
Alondra  to  Bellegarde,  so  that  you  could  not  be  tempted  to 
drive  her  yourself." 

"  My  mother  was  so  worried  by  the  idea  that  a  race  might 
harm  me,  and  she  is  so  overjoyed  that  my  health  is  mend- 
ing. .  .  .» 

"  And  besides,"  rejoined  Alejandro,  with  a  roguish  smile, 
"  it  would  not  seem  proper  that  a  senator  of  the  Republic 
should  occupy  the  curulean  chair  and  the  striped  jacket  of  the 
jockey  at  the  same  time." 

"  True,  I  am  entered  neither  for  those  trotting  matches  nor 
for  the  races." 

Near  them  just  then  passed  Bellegarde  at  a  short  gallop  on 
Alondra.  To  see  the  handsome  mare  so  full  of  fire,  so  slender, 
with  her  eye  so  bright,  her  ears  quivering,  with  her  haunches 
so  strong  and  those  legs  of  steel,  gave  him  a  momentary  shock. 

"  I  have  not  made  much  of  a  sacrifice,"  remarked  Roberto, 
however,  "  in  keeping  myself  quiet  to-day,  and  Alondra  will 
probably  suffer  more  than  I!  " 

Suddenly  there  was  a  tumult.  The  coaches  halted.  The 
dog-cart  in  which  Gacharnah  sat,  trying  to  pass,  was  jamming 
into  other  vehicles;  the  wheels  were  violently  flung  against  other 
wheels,  and  the  cart  upset.  The  horse  became  entangled  in  the 
reins,  broke  the  pole,  and  rushed  on,  pulling  along  the  traces. 
And  in  the  confusion  that  followed  the  dandy  arose,  pale  and 
covered  with  dust,  and  accepted  a  seat  in  Alejandro's  vehicle. 

"Nothing!" 

The  multitude  on  foot,  the  coaches,  the  horses,  all  now  in- 
vaded the  race  grounds.  The  carriages  began  to  form  an  im- 
mense half-circle.  The  huge  stand  and  the  boxes  became  bril- 
liant with  the  display  of  dresses  and  sunshades  in  bright  colors. 
Laughter,  shouts  of  the  bettors,  clatter  of  stirrups,  neighing  of 
horses,  and,  over  all  this,  the  deafening  voice  of  Gonzalez 


ALONDRA  231 

Mogollon,  who  ordered,  directed,  went  up  and  went  down,  ap- 
plauded, all  in  his  capacity  of  manager  of  the  fiesta,  accord- 
ing to  the  laconic  statement  on  the  ribbon  which  had  been 
fastened  in  the  lapel  of  his  walking  coat,  and  which  read: 

"  President  of  the  Organization  Committee  of  the  Races 
for  the  Benefit  of  the  Teaching  Hospital." 

As  he  crossed  the  huge  crowd,  on  his  black  mare  Bellegarde 
occasioned  a  murmur  of  approval.  The  people  with  their  un- 
failing instinct  greeted  in  him  the  man  full  of  audacity  and 
generosity  who  devoted  his  millions  to  the  benefit  of  the  coun- 
try, to  advance  the  progress  of  Colombia.  Before  his  acts 
suspicions  had  fled,  the  echoes  of  slander  had  been  stilled, 
and  all  at  this  moment  retained  in  their  memory  only  the 
marvels  of  his  energy,  the  blessings  which  everybody,  rich  and 
poor,  had  begun  to  enjoy,  and  which,  when  his  great  work  was 
concluded,  they  would  enjoy  still  more. 

"  For  my  taste,"  said  Alejandro  to  Roberto,  "  the  best  about 
a  holiday  like  to-day  is  the  rejoicing  going  on  all  about,  the 
total  lack  of  cares  and  worry  which  I  read  in  the  faces  that 
surround  us.  In  them  one  may  read  the  contentment  of  yes- 
terday, the  security  of  to-morrow.  It  is  the  joie  de  vivre. 
People  who  have  to  lie  awake  nights  thinking  of  the  means 
wherewith  to  satisfy  their  necessities  or  their  luxuries  do  not 
wear  such  a  look.  This  is  the  cheerfulness  of  peace.  .  .  .  How 
is  Sebastian  getting  along  with  his  Latin  jargon  ?  " 

"  I  shall  sow  peace,"  replied  Roberto,  while  he  climbed 
up  to  their  box  and  kept  his  gaze  fixed  on  the  track,  "  and 
later,  the  earth  will  give  its  fruits,  the  vine  its  grapes,  and 
heaven  its  dew.* 

A  trumpet  call.  The  horses  are  led  into  the  field,  range 
themselves,  and  start  on  a  run.  The  field  is  alive  with  clamor. 
Shouts  of  the  betting  crowd,  protests,  applause  for  the  jockeys 
proving  themselves  the  most  clever  and  expert.  The  horses 
dwindle  away,  are  now  lost  to  view  in  the  distance.  They  run 
on,  they  grow  in  size,  and  again  the  field  resounds  with  excited 
shouts.  Presently  the  anxious  gestures  of  the  lads  are  to  be 
seen,  and  towards  the  finish  Petronio  forges  ahead,  arrives 
at  the  stake,  runs  on  as  far  as  the  grand  stand,  and  cries  of 
triumph  or  of  displeasure  are  heard. 

The  jockey  who  has  won,  a  little  fellow  of  but  fourteen, 


232  PAX 

sitting  bareback  on  Petronio,  owned  by  Alejandro,  allows  the 
horse  to  run  a  little  ahead,  then  checks  him  gradually,  and  re- 
turns at  a  trot  to  calm  him  down  in  front  of  the  stand.  Landa- 
buro,  having  lost  $500,  threatens  one  of  the  losing  jockeys,  raises 
his  arms,  gabbles  nonsense,  declaims  against  one  of  the  judges, 
says  that  his  jockey  has  been  bought,  and  then  ascends  to  the 
box  where  Alejandro  is,  amidst  a  flutter  of  ladies. 

"  Alejandro,"  he  says,  and  his  voice  trembles  with  the  wrath 
of  defeat,  "  here  you  have  your  five  hundred  pesos  that  you've 
won  of  me.  I  hope  they  will  do  you  good." 

Without  either  answering  or  looking  at  Landaburo,  Alejandro 
called  to  the  little  fellow  who  came  to  the  foot  of  the  stand, 
his  cap  shoved  back  and  his  black  eyes  rolling  in  his  head 
like  balls  of  jet,  thoroughly  affrighted. 

"  Look  here  Perucho,  General  Landaburo  makes  you  a  pres- 
ent of  these  reales." 

Montellano's  victoria  appeared.  Roberto  hastened  to  wel- 
come Dolores.  He  felt  secret  remorse,  and  he  sought  to  ef- 
face his  guilt  by  an  effusion  of  civilities  and  attentions.  But 
Dolores  was  reserved  and  cold.  Roberto  smiled  slyly,  observing 
the  effort  on  Lola's  part  to  hide  the  joy  which  flashed  from  her 
glance. 

She  had  had  a  white  dress  made  for  herself  like  that  which 
Ines  wore  the  day  of  the  wedding,  and  Roberto,  throwing  a 
glance  at  both  the  garment  and  the  frown,  said  in  a  low  voice, 
while  he  took  her  to  a  seat  near  Ines : 

"  To-day  you  are  all  brightness  in  your  costume,  and  all 
darkness  in  hair  and  eyes." 

Montellano's  daughter  at  once  became  more  cheerful.  She 
laughed  frankly  and  heartily,  so  much  so  that  Roberto's  cousin, 
usually  indifferent,  saluted  her  affectionately. 

The  elegant  sporting  men  who  passed  continually  up  and 
down  before  the  grand  stand,  exchanging  smiles  with  occupants 
of  the  seats,  were  always  wondering  at  the  contrast  between 
these  two  styles  of  beauty:  the  dreamy  eyes  and  the  vagrant, 
roguish  eyes,  the  thoughtful  forehead  of  the  jessamine-hued 
lady  and  the  pinkish  and  playful  brunette.  But  while  Roberto, 
with  perfect  equity,  with  a  balanced  fitness,  was  dividing  his 
gallantry  and  his  coquetry  alike  between  those  two,  the  sound 


ALONDRA  233 

of  the  trumpet  was  heard,  announcing  the  start  of  the  second 
race:  a  silver  cup  was  the  prize.  The  horses  came  up  to  form 
in  line,  snorting  and  neighing,  and  were  placed  in  front. 

Gacharnah,  in  the  center  of  the  track,  seized  the  white  flag, 
had  the  horses  form  a  straight  line,  cheered  up  the  jockeys,  ob- 
served closely,  bent  down  examining,  advanced,  retraced  his 
steps,  with  the  demeanor  of  one  who  directs  a  serious  com- 
bat: 

"One!     Two!     Three!" 

He  stood  up  straight,  and  the  white  flag  dropped.  The 
horses  shot  ahead. 

And  again  the  earth  shook.  The  multitude  of  those  on 
foot  who  took  up  the  center  of  the  circle,  spread,  scattered, 
lengthened  out,  following  with  enthusiasm  the  turns  of  the  race. 
Some  of  them  climbed  up  to  the  empty  seats  on  the  carriages. 
Betting  phrases  were  bandied  about.  One  sorrel  horse  shot 
ahead.  The  silence  of  nervous  expectation  reigned.  Suddenly 
the  cry: 

"  Rayo  wins." 

During  this  space  of  time,  in  front  of  the  stand,  vendors 
with  baskets  of  apples  and  oranges  passed  up  and  down. 

"  The  earth  will  give  its  fruits,"  said  Roberto  jestingly  to 
Ines.  "  Do  you  remember  that  afternoon?  " 

Dona  Aura  had  them  buy  some  apples  for  her.  But  biting 
into  one  she  felt  with  dismay  one  of  her  teeth  break. 

"  It  is  not  ripe,"  she  exclaimed  with  displeasure,  and  threw 
the  apple  away. 

"  But  what  surely  is  ripe  is  the  tooth,"  murmured  Roberto, 
who  was  beside  Ines  and  Dolores. 

A  dense  mist  that  came  pouring  down  from  the  foot  of  the 
range  of  mountains,  suddenly,  with  a  puff  of  wind,  enwrapped 
the  scene,  spread  over  the  whole  field,  made  the  parasols  bob 
up  and  down,  whipped  the  faces,  moistened  the  roofs  of  the 
coaches,  and  obscured  the  white  of  the  ladies'  cloaks,  of  the 
gowns,  of  the  gloves,  and  darkened  all  those  brilliant  colors 
with  the  gray  gusts  of  wind  which  crossed  each  other  like  hand- 
fuls  of  ashes.  The  squall  broke  the  black  clouds  in  spots,  and 
the  blue  of  the  sky  smiled  down  between  the  light  apertures  on 
the  horizon,  while  within  a  few  moments  the  heat  of  the 


234  PAX 

sun  removed  the  wet  from  the  harness  of  the  horses,  from  the 
dancing  leaves  that  had  been  torn  from  the  trees  and  were 
whirling  around  in  a  circle. 

"  The  sky  will  give  its  dew,"  said  Roberto  humorously  to 
Alejandro,  when  the  rain  came. 

But  the  shower  passed  quickly.  All  these  juvenile  faces 
which  had  begun  to  purse  their  lips  in  a  frown  of  fitful  peevish- 
ness, now  smiled  again.  The  whole  landscape  once  more 
shone  with  moist  freshness. 

Cheerfulness  increases.  It  is  reflected  from  all  the  faces. 
The  sun  of  late  afternoon  gilds  the  grass.  It  mirrors  itself  in 
the  polished  coach  doors.  It  glitters  from  the  burnished  metal 
of  the  harness.  It  shines  from  the  plumes  and  feathers 
of  the  ladies'  hats  in  the  boxes,  from  the  lenses  of  the 
field  glasses,  from  the  branches  and  bouquets  of  flowers,  from 
the  ribbons  of  the  bonnets,  even  from  the  roses  in  the  cheeks 
made  brilliant  by  recent  emotions  and  by  libations  of  cham- 
pagne that  when  raised  reflect  the  bubbling  and  effervescing 
fluid  with  opalescent  fire. 

"What  are  we  going  to  wager,  Dolores?  The  next  race  is 
due." 

"  Roberto,  let  us  bet  something,"  comes  the  voice  of  Dona 
Aura. 

"  A  gold  pen  which  you  will  give  me,  against  The  Elm  Tree 
and  the  Ivy  which  is  about  to  see  the  light." 

"  Done." 

Dolores  was  unable  to  hide  her  pleasure  when  Roberto  ap- 
proached her,  and  as  she  smiled  frankly  she  showed  a  row  of 
magnificent  teeth. 

"  That  which  you  yourself  may  indicate,  Roberto.  Pro- 
pose something." 

"  Flowers  against  perfumes." 

"  Good,  flowers  against  perfumes.  And  you,  what  do  you 
give,  perfumes  or  flowers  ?  " 

"  Perfumes :  against  that  red  camellia  which  you  have 
there." 

"This  camellia?  .  .  .  No,  .  .  .  you  yourself  gave  me  that. 
I  will  not  risk  it." 

"  Well,  then,  that  rose." 

"  And  it  is  from  Castile,  you  know." 


ALONDRA  235 

"  Agreed.  .  .  .  But  which  is  your  horse?  " 

"  Tell  me  yours  first.  .  .  .  Wait." 

And  she  let  her  glance  wander  along  the  row  of  horses  in 
order  to  choose  amongst  those  that  were  trotting  on  the  track, 
near  the  point  of  starting. 

"  Mine,"  said  Dolores,  "  is  that  white  horse  over  there, 
with  the  jockey  in  a  red-and-blue  striped  jacket." 

"  And  mine  is  Hamlet,  that  black  horse  yonder,"  rejoined 
Roberto,  and  he  turned  towards  Ines. 

"  Already  picked  your  horse,  Ines?     I  come  about  that  bet." 

With  a  slight  smile  of  mystery,  the  dark  meaning  of  which 
an  initiated  person  like  Roberto  might  divine,  she  answered: 

"  I  like  that  brown  and  rather  insignificant  looking  horse, 
with  the  jockey  in  gray." 

"  It  is  a  poor  horse,  let  me  advise  you." 

"  I  don't  care;  I  am  fond  of  those  colors." 

"  You  always  prefer  the  indefinable,  the  colors  between, 
don't  you?" 

"  Do  you  think  so?  "  said  she,  with  a  discreet  smile.  "  That 
explains  to  me  why  you  envy  me  this  white  camellia." 

"  For  you,  then,  white  camellia,  German  sonatas,  verses  by 
Sully-Prudhomme,  jockeys  in  gray,  misty  landscapes  by  Corot, 
and  dresses  in  plain  purple,  such  as  you  wear  to-day." 

"  Look,  Roberto,  the  horses  are  on  the  point  of  starting. 
Which  is  the  one  you  choose  ?  I  want  to  see  your  taste.  Some 
caprice,  I  presume." 

"Which  do  you  think?" 

"That  black  one?" 

"Exactly.     Anything  queer  about  that?" 

"  But  see,  Roberto,  they  are  already  starting,  and  we  have 
not  yet  settled  our  bet.  ..." 

"  Very  well,  that  white  camellia,  then?  " 

"  No,  not  the  white  camellia.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  then?"  .  .  . 

"  All  right,  the  camellia,  but  painted  in  oil.  ..." 

"  Splendid,  but  beside  the  painting,  that  branch  of  Alpine 
violets.  .  .  .  And  I  will  bet.  .  .  .  Perhaps  the  score  of  Aida?  " 

Without  moving  her  lips  she  said  "  yes "  with  her  eyes, 
half-closing  her  eyelids  with  that  languor  peculiar  to  her. 

"  And  in  your  case,  mother  dear,"  said  Roberto,  taking  Dona 


236  PAX 

Ana's  hand,  "  I  bet  a  kiss,  and  I'll  pay  you  in  advance." 
And  he  imprinted  a  kiss  on  her  black  glove. 

The  three  horses,  the  white  one,  the  black  and  the  brown, 
which  had  disappeared  in  a  dust  cloud,  now  reappeared,  speeded 
along,  followed  the  bend  in  the  track.  Then  they  were  lost 
for  a  brief  while  amongst  the  brambly  fields,  began  to  ap- 
pear again,  and  were  keeping  the  same  line,  without  any  one 
of  them  being  able  to  gain  the  slightest  advantage  over  the 
others. 

There  arose  a  great  shout  from  all  those  throats: 

"  The  white  one !  ...  he  is  gaining !  " 

"  They're  already  on  the  return  trip !  " 

Dolores  blushed  with  emotion,  and  laughed  with  pleasure. 

There  was  another  shout: 

"  The  brown  horse!  ...  El  Tordo  is  winning!  "... 

Ines  took  her  glass  to  look. 

Now  they  are  coming.  And  the  multitude  suddenly  ex- 
claims : 

"The  black  one!  The  black  one!  ...  Fine!  Well  done! 
.  .  .  He  has  passed.  .  .  .  Three  cheers  for  Hamlet!  " 

Then  followed  two  races  in  which  Gonzalez  Mogollon  awarded 
a  jockey  in  bronze  and  a  harness  trimmed  with  gold,  "  the  Gon- 
zalez Mogollon  harness,"  as  it  was  termed  in  the  program,  to 
the  winners. 

Everybody  was  impatiently  awaiting  the  Honor  Race,  in 
which  gentlemen  were  to  participate. 

The  sun,  now  declining,  threw  wide  shadows  over  the  vast 
plain,  anointed  with  brushfuls  of  old  gold  the  tops  of  the  trees, 
the  upper  rows  of  the  grand  stand.  In  the  glass  of  the  coach 
lamps  the  light  of  the  sun  was  thrown  back  like  living  flame. 

A  new  roll  of  the  drum.  This  was  followed  by  the  gay 
strains  of  the  military  bands,  and  after  a  short  silence  a  bell 
was  heard  announcing  the  race:  a  trumpet  call. 

The  Honor  Race! 

All  hearts  are  beating  with  emotion.  Among  the  gentle- 
men there  is  much  excitement,  and  plenty  of  movement  up 
on  the  stand  and  in  the  coaches.  The  ladies  are  assuming 
more  attentive  attitudes  so  as  to  see  better.  Several  put  their 
field  glasses  ready  for  use. 

The  horses  that  are  to  figure  in  this  race  begin  to  appear 


ALONDRA  237 

on  the  track,  with  short  leaps,  animated  by  the  music.  The 
grooms  have  no  light  task  in  leading  them  by  the  bridle.  The 
gentlemen  riders  are  mounting  amidst  handclapping,  cheers 
and  voices  of  encouragement  that  are  heard  from  the  stand. 

There  is  now  El  Buitre  on  the  track,  a  chestnut  Arab,  ca- 
pricious, imperious,  hard  to  control.  He  wishes  to  start,  shak- 
ing his  head,  lifting  his  neck  with  impatience  on  being  checked 
with  the  bridle,  and  in  the  struggle  that  follows  between 
rider  and  horse  the  arms  of  the  latter  are  violently  jerked. 

Next  comes  El  Huascar,  a  light  silver  gray,  with  sunken 
flanks,  shoulder  bones  protruding.  In  hisxexcitement  he  moves 
the  stump  of  his  tail  convulsively. 

Now  enters  El  Inca  at  a  short  trot,  throwing  his  feet  high. 
He  is  hard  to  hold,  but  continually  bites  his  bridle  sidewise, 
steps  obliquely,  and  shows  a  great  mind  to  throw  himself  against 
the  posts  on  the  track. 

"El  Condor!  El  Condor!"  a  number  are  shouting  when 
they  see  enter  with  admirable  grace,  with  muscles  of  steel,  with 
well-defined  marks  on  his  gray  hide,  a  trotting-horse  that 
paws  the  ground  and  is  full  of  vigor.  A  man  on  foot  is 
leading  him  slowly,  while  this  swift,  swan-like  steed,  fiery, 
presses  onward,  turning  restlessly  around  the  arm  which  sub- 
dues him  with  some  trouble. 

But  the  superb  animal  is  without  a  rider,  although  the  pre- 
ceding horses  are  already  trotting  ahead  fully  equipped  for 
the  track. 

"Who  is  going  to  race  the  Condor?"  all  are  asking  with 
curiosity. 

This  horse  which  had  won  so  many  races  was  certainly  a 
formidable  adversary:  to  run  against  him,  bet  against  him 
without  large  odds,  was  almost  worse  than  temerity.  Until 
this  day  no  horse  had  been  able  to  tear  victory  away  from  him. 

And  of  a  sudden,  to  everybody's  surprise,  Landaburo,  at- 
tired as  jockey,  presented  himself,  with  his  lustrous  patent 
leather  boots,  his  white  breeches  smartly  adjusted,  a  crimson 
blouse  and  a  red  cap,  probably  to  remind  him  of  the  raw 
meat  of  the  bivouac. 

El  Condor,  on  feeling  the  weight  of  his  mount,  rose  on  his 
hind  legs,  attempted  to  run  away,  but  Landaburo,  affecting 
the  movements  and  gestures  of  an  expert  jockey,  with  the  palm 


238  PAX 

of  his  hand  caressed  the  satin  neck  of  the  horse,  and  succeeded 
in  calming  him  in  front  of  the  grand  stand. 

"  I  know  something  about  this,"  said  Landaburo  in  his 
sonorous  voice  that  echoed  with  military  glory.  "  I  am  rather 
strong  in  athletic  games  and  exercise.  .  .  .  Nero  and  many 
other  emperors  of  the  Roman  days  enhanced  their  reputation 
by  taking  part  in  sports  like  this.  ...  I  shall  win.  I  shall 
triumph.  I  am  going  to  ride  the  condor  of  the  Andes.  I  have 
formerly  raced  much." 

"  True,  very  true,  general,"  remarked  Roberto. 

"  Landaburo,"  said  Dona  Aura,  "  I  have  here  ready  for 
you  a  crown  of  laurel  and  another  of  the  sacred  mistle- 
toe." 

In  a  burst  of  passion,  taking  Alejandro  by  surprise,  as 
well  as  the  two  girls,  Roberto  left  the  grand  stand,  went  down 
the  stairs,  and  vanished  in  the  crowd  below. 

Landaburo,  already  believing  himself  the  victor,  cast  a 
triumphant  glance  along  the  whole  row  of  seats,  over  to  the 
track,  upon  the  turf,  on  which  the  multitude  was  swarming, 
and  from  among  these  there  rose  already  sundry  acclamations 
proclaiming  in  advance  the  triumph  of  the  Condor's  bold  rider. 

"Three  cheers  for  General  Landaburo!  "  was  heard. 

His  friends  began  to  surround  him,  they  shook  hands  with 
him,  and  he,  stooping  down,  whispered  to  them: 

"  All  these  people  here  are  ready  to  applaud  me  as  the 
victor  in  this  race,  which  I  have  no  doubt  I  can  win.  Let 
there  be  a  few  that  will  raise  the  cry:  'Long  life  to  the  in- 
corruptible chief  of  the  Revaluation  cause.'  >! 

Suddenly  Roberto,  without  any  other  distinctive  mark  but 
his  white  cap,  appeared  on  his  black  mare. 

"  It  is  Alondra!  "  exclaimed  Dolores,  filled  with  joy. 

"  Alejandro,  for  Heaven's  sake,"  tremblingly  cried  Dona  Ana, 
"  does  Roberto  mean  to  run  in  this  race?  " 

"  Yes,  auntie,  he  is  going  to  contest  it  with  Landaburo. 
He  could  not  resist  the  temptation.  We  cannot  stop  him. 
But  it  is  a  good  thing,  for  the  race  will  set  him  up." 

Bellegarde  having  noticed  Dona  Ana's  uneasiness  came  up  to 
her  now,  and  said  in  his  kind  voice : 

"  Have  no  fear,  Seriora,  for  Roberto  is  now  in  very  good 


ALONDRA  239 

health.  It  seemed  a  pity  to  me  that  the  mare  he  presented 
to  me  as  a  gift  should  not  run  in  this  race  to-day." 

Then  he  approached  Ines,  and  Dolores  remarked  that,  just 
as  on  the  night  before  at  the  theater,  the  bosom  of  her  com- 
panion heaved  gently. 

The  mare  which  seemed  to  recognize  her  rider,  gave  signs  of 
affection  and  pleasure,  held  her  head  up  high,  where  the 
white  star  showed,  and  threw  intelligent  glances  at  the  vast 
crowd. 

Dolores  and  Ines,  interrupting  a  painful  silence,  spoke  to 
each  other. 

"Aren't  you  betting?"  asked  Dolores. 

"  We  are." 

"Which  is  your  horse?" 

"  Tell  me  yours  first." 

And  then  both  at  the  same  time: 

"  I  shall  bet  on  Alondra." 

The  places  were  assigned  and  after  enormous  difficulties,  the 
horses,  untameable  and  champing  their  bits,  jerking  up  their 
heads,  swerving  hither  and  thither,  eager  to  start  off  too  early, 
were  at  last  standing  in  file.  Eyes  full  of  fire,  ears  restless,  they 
danced  nervously  in  their  places,  turning  about  the  same  point, 
and  waiting  every  instant  for  the  order  to  start. 

Alondra,  accustomed  to  the  circus,  kept  her  post,  and  showed 
with  pride  the  elegance  of  her  feminine  slenderness,  letting 
her  impatience  be  seen  only  by  the  inflation  of  her  nostrils, 
the  trembling  of  her  flanks,  and  the  flash  of  her  eyes. 

Alejandro  approached,  and  with  his  handkerchief  he  rubbed 
rapidly  the  feet,  the  forelocks,  and  the  chest  of  the  handsome 
beast. 

"  One!  "  counted  Gacharnah. 

And  the  horses  gathered  their  strength  for  the  event. 

"Two!" 

With  an  irresistible  impulse  El  Condor  made  a  false  start, 
and  with  great  trouble  was  brought  back  again  to  his  place. 

The  file  of  horses  had  to  be  rearranged. 

New  motions  of  impatience. 

"One!  .  .  .  Two!  .  .  ." 

Gacharnah,  fronting  the  horses,  humps  his  shoulder,  espies 


240  PAX 

the  instant  in  which^the  heads  of  the  horses  are  in  line,  and 
watching  closely  his  opportunity,  he  turns  out  of  the  way,  drops 
the  flag,  and  says: 

"Three!" 

They  are  off  like  lightning.  Again  the  earth  trembles  and 
thunders.  It  is  a  hurricane  in  which  every  particle  moves, 
turns,  and  is  swallowed  up  in  the  whole. 

The  horses  fly,  belly  near  the  ground.  The  riders,  standing 
solely  in  their  stirrups,  stretch  themselves  at  full  length  along 
the  neck  of  their  mounts.  The  wind  swells  their  blouses  and 
roars  in  their  ears. 

El  Buitre,  in  four  jumps,  takes  the  lead.  Roberto  on  his 
Alondra  remains  behind.  The  whole  group  runs  like  demons, 
devouring  distance,  following  the  line  of  the  red  stakes.  Sud- 
denly the  Arab  chestnut  leaves  the  track,  runs  on  in  a  straight 
line,  and  in  a  giddy  course  arrives  at  a  ditch,  far  away  from 
the  circle,  recovers  herself,  and  makes  a  tremendous  leap,  her 
rider  being  flung  on  the  plain. 

Those  behind  already  begin  to  turn  in  on  the  home  stretch. 
The  spectators  follow  the  events  with  exclamations: 

"  Sol  is  getting  ahead." 

"  Rifle  is  gaining." 

"  No,  .  .  .  Inca  has  passed  him." 

"Now  it  is  Huascar!  Thousand  pesos  on  Huascar!  Raise 
the  gavel!  " 

"Thousand  pesos  on  Condor!     He  is  running  very  fresh!  " 

"  Alondra  remains  behind.  She  won't  get  there  till  day 
after  to-morrow." 

The  black  mare,  slipping  along  easily  near  the  stakes  marking 
the  limits  of  the  track,  at  a  mechanical  and  regular  gallop,  held 
back  by  Roberto,  does  not  seem  to  worry  at  all,  despite  being 
in  the  rear. 

Dolores  and  Ines  feel  discouraged  in  the  midst  of  all  this 
enthusiasm  and  shouting. 

Montellano,  afoot,  wildly  gesticulating,  completely  engrossed 
with  a  spectacle  that  is  new  to  him,  and  profiting  by  the  mo- 
ment that  seems  to  be  safe  for  a  bet,  screams,  looking  at 
Alejandro: 

"  Fifty  pounds  on  Condor  against  Alondra!  " 


ALONDRA  241 

"  I  take  you!  "  says  Bellegarde  quietly,  without  moving  his 
glass  away  from  the  track. 

The  attention  and  the  interest  paid  the  race  was  now  con- 
centrated upon  Condor  and  Alondra,  and  upon  their  two 
riders,  Roberto  and  Landaburo.  The  multitude  was  divided 
quite  capriciously  into  two  great  parties,  split  up  into  smaller  or 
larger  groups,  and  was  cheering  one  or  the  other  of  its  favorites. 
They  were  heated  to  boiling  point,  and  identified  themselves 
entirely  with  the  triumph  of  one  or  the  other. 

And  now,  getting  tremendous  odds  in  wagers,  the  swan- 
like  horse,  with  Landaburo  astride  of  it,  was  forging  ahead 
like  a  shot. 

"The  Condor!"  was  the  cry  from  the  throats  of  an  im- 
mense throng  that  already  began  to  cluster  around  towards 
the  goal. 

Dolores  and  Ines,  hiding  their  emotions,  felt  neverthless, 
greatly  annoyed,  as  though  these  tokens  of  encouragement  for 
Landaburo  were  intended  to  offend  them  personally.  In  their 
minds  they  made  unexampled  efforts  for  their  hero's  horse, 
kept  their  eyes  glued  to  the  glass  with  which  they  eagerly  con- 
tinued scanning  the  distance,  wishing  to  infuse  new  strength 
into  the  limbs  of  the  lagging  mare.  Dona  Ana  moved  her 
lips,  with  her  gaze  into  space. 

"  El  Condor!     El  Condor!  "  was  the  universal  cry. 

Landaburo  has  triumphed.  Half  the  spectators  are  palpi- 
tating with  the  intoxication  of  victory,  while  the  other  half  have 
become  silent  under  the  discouragement  of  defeat. 

"  Long  life  to  Landaburo,  the  invincible,  the  matchless 
chief!  "  some  of  the  crowd  are  now  vociferating. 

Alejandro  to  Montellano: 

"  Five  hundred  dollars  more  on  Alondra!  " 

"  Done !  "  says  Montellano. 

Meanwhile  Alondra,  feeling  the  bridle  less  strained,  is 
stretching  her  neck,  lengthens  her  stride,  thumps  the  ground 
with  greater  vigor,  shows  more  power  in  her  thighs  of  steel. 

"La  Alondra!"  all  are  now  roaring.  "She  outdistances 
Huascar!  .  .  .  She  is  passing  Rifle!  .  .  .  She  is  gaining  on 
Inca!  .  .  .  She  has  passed  him!  .  .  .  She  is  gaining  on  Con- 
dor! .,  ." 


242  PAX 

Now  anxious  silence  everywhere.  The  black  mare  and  the 
swanlike  horse  are  thundering  ahead  foot  by  foot,  ear  by  ear. 
All  are  holding  their  breath.  It  is  a  blissful  anxiety,  a  pleas- 
ure full  of  agony.  It  would  almost  seem  as  if  these  people,  sur- 
prised, are  waiting  for  a  catastrophe.  There  is  now  no  out- 
cry, no  applause.  Far  away  the  field  is  resounding  with  the 
noise  of  the  struggle.  The  dull  thunder  of  hoofbeats  is  grow- 
ing apace  in  volume  as  it  approaches  more  and  more.  The 
eager  breath  of  lungs  pumping  with  a  supreme  effort  can  be 
heard  from  a  distance.  Now  and  then  the  quick  snap  of  the 
whip  may  be  noticed.  The  spectators  grow  pale.  Their  eyes 
open  wide,  hands  become  crisp.  Foreheads  contract  with  ex- 
treme tension.  And  more  and  more  is  to  be  distinguished  the 
powerful  thumping  of  the  speeding  horses  coming  ever  nearer. 
Now  they  are  coming..  .  .  Now  they  are  already  there  .  .  . 
and  Condor  and  the  black  mare  always  neck  and  neck  .  .  . 
ear  by  ear,  hoof  by  hoof. 

Both  groups  of  partizans  have  grown  mute,  and  in  the  silence 
of  this  multitude,  electrified  for  the  time,  are  plainly  heard 
the  outcries  of  Landaburo,  the  lashing  of  his  whip,  with  which 
he  desperately  urges  on  the  Condor  of  the  Andes. 

Roberto  is  coming  on  silently,  quietly,  extended  along  the 
slender  neck  of  the  mare. 

Ines  and  Dolores  are  bent  over  the  railing  in  front  of  their 
seats,  holding  back  their  breath. 

"  Alondra  "  cheers  on  Dolores,  "Alondrita!  .  .  .  one  more 
leap  .  .  .  just  one  more  effort,  one  more  spurt!  " 

Bellegarde  is  cleaning  off  the  dust  from  his  monocle,  and 
with  an  air  of  perfect  nonchalance  he  adjusts  it  anew  in  a 
corner  of  his  eye. 

Alexander,  serene,  is  adding  up  the  figures  in  his  note- 
book. 

Montellano,  quite  in  a  frenzy,  is  holding  aloft  his  athletic 
fists,  and  breaks  out : 

"  Cursed  Condor,  get  on,  get  on !     Make  haste !  " 

El  Buitre,  with  a  "  tortoise  in  his  belly,"  without  a  horseman 
on  top  of  him,  is  running  up  and  down  in  front  of  the  grand 
stand. 

Now  they  have  almost  made  the  goal.     Condor  has  gained 


ALONDRA  243 

the  length  of  a  head.  Roberto  rises  in  his  stirrups,  stretches 
himself  more  flatly  along  the  neck  of  his  mare,  taps  her  with 
the  palms  of  his  hands,  loosens  the  bridle,  gives  a  little  cry 
of  encouragement  to  her,  and  Alondra,  in  a  new  burst,  in  three 
vigorous  jumps,  with  a  supreme  effort,  gains  the  lost  space, 
passes  her  rival,  and  amidst  thunderous  applause,  arrives  at 
the  goal,  pursues  her  course  for  another  short  spell,  displays  her- 
self to  the  delighted  spectators  on  the  grand  stand,  lifts  her 
head  proudly,  and  seems  to  understand  the  glory  of  the  strug- 
gle she  has  made,  and  the  pride  of  triumph. 

There  is  a  burst  of  music.  Handkerchiefs  are  being  waved 
by  the  ladies.  Thousands  of  arms  are  flourishing  hats  in  the 
air.  Little  gloved  hands  are  applauding.  The  multitude  on 
the  wide  meadow  are  shrieking  themselves  hoarse.  There  rises 
to  the  firmament  one  enormous  shout  of  enthusiasm,  one  roar  of 
triumph  and  of  joy. 

"Viva  La  Alondra!  .  .  .  Viva  Roberto  Avila!  "  These 
shouts  sweep  along  the  whole  landscape,  like  an  endless  wave 
of  applause. 

He  climbs  up  the  steps  of  the  grand  stand,  amidst  handclap- 
ping,  hugs,  admiring  glances.  He  smiles  at  them  all,  with 
his  colorless  lips,  still  trembling,  without  air  in  his  lungs. 

"  Roberto,"  exclaims  Dona  Aura,  "  I  shall  have  you  figure 
in  my  fourth  chapter." 

Dolores  and  Ines  both  turn  to  him,  rising.  Gonzalez  Mogol- 
lon  hands  him  the  crown  and  the  medal.  All  are  making 
room  for  the  victor  to  pass. 

Dolores,  blushing  with  pleasure  and  pride,  offers  him  the 
crown. 

And  he,  in  an  almost  inaudible  voice,  says  to  her: 

"  Thanks,  .  .  .  and  the  rose  ...  the  rose  of  Castile?  " 

Ines  affixes  the  medal  to  his  breast;  a  tricolored  ribbon  hangs 
down  from  it. 

"  Merci  bien,  .  .  .  and  my  violets  ?  "  he  asks. 

Bellegarde  offers  him  his  hand  with  profound  affection. 

The  march  from  Aida  is  being  intoned  with  its  triumphal 
ring. 

Dona  Ana  says  to  him,  in  a  low  voice: 

"  Are  you  not  feeling  well,  my  son?  " 


244  PAX 

"  Yes,  dear  mother  better  than  ever,"  he  replies. 

Then  Bellegarde  gives  his  arms  to  the  old  lady,  and  gets  into 
the  coach  with  her. 

The  multitude  hastens  back  to  the  city.  The  coaches,  after 
filing  silently  along  the  meadow,  turn  into  the  highroad  and 
roll  on  noisily.  In  the  rear,  amongst  a  throng  of  a  thou- 
sand horsemen,  is  Roberto,  acclaimed  by  all.  The  horses,  in- 
fected by  the  general  enthusiasm,  describe  elegant  figures, 
prance,  champ  their  bits,  snort  and  cover  their  harness  with 
flakes  of  froth.  The  ball  of  the  sinking  sun  goes  down  amidst 
plumes  of  scarlet.  The  atmosphere  is  bathed  in  rosy  vapor. 
The  defile  of  the  horsemen  is  wrapped  in  the  splendors  of  an 
apotheosis. 

Landaburo,  eaten  up  with  envy,  is  nevertheless  walking  with 
his  accustomed  pose.  Hearing  the  merry  clamor  around  Rob- 
erto, he  grins  with  a  gesture  of  displeasure.  He  twists  his  beard 
with  fingers  that  are  shaking  with  rage.  And  he  attempts  to 
explain  the  reason  of  his  defeat: 

"  The  race  was  mine,  but  it  happened  that  .  .  ." 

And  he  added: 

"  Friends,  Bogota  is  amusing  herself.  .  .  .  But  will  these 
rejoicings  last?  " 

And  again  was  heard  the  mysterious  date  of  the  revolution 
which  the  chief  was  preparing: 

"  On  the  first  of  January  .  .  .  to-morrow  at  the  bar  of  the 
Senate  .  .  .  and  afterwards  the  meeting." 

The  mass  of  horsemen,  enveloped  by  clouds  of  dust,  which  the 
last  rays  of  the  sun  were  gilding,  went  on  at  a  gallop,  entered 
the  streets,  their  glittering  trappings  emitting  sparks,  and  the 
clamor,  the  champing  of  bits,  the  neighing  and  snorting  of  all 
these  horses,  the  crack  of  the  whips,  the  shock  of  the  headgear, 
mingled  together  until  it  became  one  sole  thunder  of  noise  that 
resounded  within  the  walls  of  the  neighboring  houses  and  ar- 
rived like  an  alarm  at  the  sleeping  and  distant  suburbs. 

The  invited  guests  of  the  Sport  Club  sat  down  at  the  ban- 
quet prepared  in  honor  of  the  victor.  Roberto  was  at  the  head 
of  the  long  table,  and  on  either  side  of  him  Bellegarde,  Ale- 
jandro and  General  Ronderos.  All  around  the  table  there  is 
merriment  and  shouting. 

From  the  chandelier  in  the  center  of  the  hall,  like  triumphal 


ALONDRA  245 

spoils,  are  hanging,  tied  with  the  whiplash  of  a  jockey,  the 
white  cap  and  the  spurs  of  Roberto. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  banquet  a  servant  takes  up  the 
branch  in  the  center,  with  the  escutcheons  of  all  those  present, 
and  offers  it  to  Roberto.  The  victor  adds  his  own  to  it.  The 
servant  is  awaiting  orders,  and  as  he  does  so  commentaries, 
rumors,  guesses  are  floating  in  the  air,  all  made  in  a  very  low 
voice,  as  for  instance: 

"For  whom?     For  whom!     I  think  I  know." 

"  Yes,  yes,  we  understand.  .  .  .  Does  he  send  it  to  Ines?  " 

"  Do  you  think  so?     Is  it  for  Dolores?  " 

Somebody  else  exclaimed: 

"  Roberto,  let  us  know.  ...  Is  it  for  la  Rondinelli  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  for  la  Rondinelli!  "  somebody  suggests. 

But  Roberto,  turning  towards  the  servant,  says  in  a  low  and 
tender  voice: 

"  For  my  mother." 

Ronderos  seized  a  goblet  of  champagne,  smiled  with  pleasure 
out  of  his  big  gray  mustaches,  and  rose. 

"  This  is  to  my  best  friend,  to  Senator  Avila,  to  you,  Roberto, 
my  former  companion  in  the  war,  my  defender  ever,  my  future 
colleague  in  the  cabinet!  " 

And  all  the  guests  after  him: 

"To  Roberto,  the  victor!  " 

Montellano,  animated  by  champagne,  remarked: 

"  I  am  happy,  and  I  no  longer  even  remember  my  six  hun- 
dred dollars  .  .  .  !  That  accursed  Condor!  " 

Alejandro,  moved  to  the  depths  of  his  soul,  gazed  at  his 
friend  with  the  air  of  a  brother,  shook  him  vigorously  by  the 
arm,  and  murmured: 

"  Roberto,  this  goblet  must  be  drained  to  the  last  drop.  I 
feel  that  this  triumph  of  yours  is  no  ephemeral  one.  Let  your 
life  from  now  on,  until  this  hour  an  unsteady  one,  become 
one  of  settled  purpose.  Go  on  to  final  happiness  with  a  firm 
tread.  Spirit,  will  power,  energy !  You  have  a  political  future 
before  you,  together  with  wealth,  general  esteem,  the  affection- 
ate regard  of  society,  therefore  laurels,  the  palm,  the  sword, 
and  youth.  ...  Ah,  and  that  which  is  worth  more  still:  the 
love  of  two  women!  " 


246  PAX 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

EQUALITY 

THE  president  of  the  Senate  mounted  the  steps,  sat  down  be- 
low the  baldachin  of  yellow  silk,  token  of  his  dignity,  took  a 
good  look  at  the  persons  in  the  hall,  at  the  steps  in  the  front, 
which  were  crowded  with  a  restless  multitude,  threw  a  glance  at 
the  clock,  arranged  some  papers  on  his  table,  then  bent  down, 
stretched  out  his  hand,  and  seized  the  bell.  In  the  session  hall, 
where  the  senators  were  about  to  occupy  their  seats,  and  in  the 
barred-off  space  where  a  great  throng  were  swarming  about,  the 
murmuring  ceased.  And  in  the  midst  of  general  expectation 
the  President  said: 

"  Mr.  Secretary,  please  call  the  roll !  " 

"  The  honorable  senators  will  please  answer  as  their  names 
are  called.  .  .  .  Alba,  Avila,  Benavides,  Borja  .  .  ." 

The  secretary,  in  the  center  of  the  hall,  was  calling  off  in  a 
sing-song  voice,  the  alphabetical  list  of  the  senators,  and  these, 
rising  at  their  desks,  or  hurrying  from  the  doors  leading  into  the 
hall,  as  soldiers  would  run  where  danger  threatened,  hastening 
to  meet  the  enemy,  in  this  heated  atmosphere,  presaging  a  tem- 
pest, would  reply  in  accents  sharp  and  aggressive,  "  Here ! 
Present!  "  Just  as  though  they  hurled  a  challenge  at  the  foe. 

"There  is  a  quorum  present,  Mr.  President!  "  declared  the 
secretary  then,  getting  on  his  legs  for  the  purpose. 

"  The  session  is  now  opened,"  said  Sanchez  Mendez  solemnly, 
buttoning  his  coat,  which  was  somewhat  of  a  tight  fit. 

The  secretary  next,  in  a  monotonous  voice,  read  sundry  docu- 
ments of  no  importance,  and  this  wearied  the  public,  anxious 
to  get  soon  to  the  debate  on  the  canalization  contract.  Sanchez 
Mendez  had  at  the  first  session  of  the  Congress  introduced  a  bill, 
disapproving  of  the  whole  project,  in  order  to  oust  Ronderos  and 
undermine  the  Government. 

Then  the  journal  of  the  last  session  was  approved,  the  unfin- 
ished business  left  for  the  presiding  officers  to  attend  to  was 
reported  on,  telegrams  received  were  read.  .  .  .  Suddenly  there 
was  a  burst  of  applause  from  amongst  the  lobby.  Alcon,  in  a 
fearful  perspiration,  and  wiping  his  bald  head,  had  just  come  in. 


EQUALITY  247 

"  To-day's  session  is  going  to  be  decisive,"  observed  Sanchez. 
"  If  we  have  a  majority,  Ronderos  is  a  dead  man." 

"  Up  to  now,"  rejoined  Alcon,  "  we  are  short.  The  Govern- 
ment have  eleven  votes,  and  we  have  only  ten." 

"  And  Benavides?  "  said  Sanchez  anxiously,  but  without  rais- 
ing his  voice.  "Were  you  at  his  house?  ...  Is  he  not  com- 
ing? .  .  .  We  need  him  urgently." 

"  Things  are  bad.  That  is  where  I  come  from.  I  left  to 
Gonzalez  Mogollon  the  task  of  making  him  get  up  from  bed,  and 
dressing  him.  He  will  drag  him  here,  living  or  dead." 

Sanchez,  in  perplexity,  was  rubbing  his  beard  with  a  dis- 
turbed air. 

Having  cleared  his  forehead  of  its  frown  while  gazing  at  the 
senators,  and  raising  a  horse-laugh  in  the  lobby  by  a  jest,  the 
secretary  next  with  a  roguish  accent  began  to  read  a  long  petition 
from  the  inventor,  Sanchez  de  Pefianegra,  wherein  that  gentle- 
man prayed  for  subventions  in  behalf  of  his  contrivances,  which 
he  claimed  were  poorly  recompensed  by  the  Government. 

"  With  the  sole  object,"  this  genius  said,  "  of  aiding  the  peo- 
ple, the  military  men  and  the  philosophers,  I  have  invented, 
planned  and  described  things  of  undoubted  utility,  such  as  a 
machine  which  I  have  named  the  Pefia  Negra,  and  which  is  far 
superior  to  the  present  steam,  water,  electric  motors,  etc.  With 
this  machine  modern  locomotion  can  be  entirely  modified.  .  .  . 
Then,  a  machine  for  weighing  the  heavenly  bodies.  .  .  .  An- 
other to  manufacture  tablets  of  paste  or  pancakes,  as  well  as  a 
palatable  food  out  of  the  fruit  of  the  guava  tree,  and  greatly  to 
be  preferred  to  those  of  Velez.  .  .  .  Next,  a  new  process  to 
compress  salt,  and  another  to  extract  the  by-products  of  hemp. 
Again,  a  complete  set  of  apparatus  for  the  cultivation  and  the 
rendering  marketable  of  coffee  and  sugar  cane,  much  better  than 
all  those  now  in  use.  .  .  .  One  machine  to  extract  the  salt  out  of 
the  beet  root.  .  .  .  Another  to  make  guns  without  repercus- 
sion. .  .  ." 

"  In  charge  of  Senator  Sandoval  y  Sabogal,"  said  the  Presi- 
dent. 

But  now  the  secretary  took  a  sheet  of  stamped  paper,  on  which 
there  was  writing  in  large  characters,  and  in  a  solemn  and  vi- 
brating voice  he  read,  amidst  complete  silence  and  the  breathless 
attention  of  the  public: 


248  PAX 

"Order  of  the  Day: 

"  For  a  second  reading : 

"  Bill  by  which  the  contract  of  canalization  and  colonization, 
with  the  assistance  of  the  Minister  of  Finance,  is  disapproved." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  excitement  amongst  the  public. 
Some  senators,  who  had  been  walking  r,bout  the  passages,  came 
quickly  in.  Others,  who  up  to  now  had  seemed  asleep  in  their 
chairs,  sat  up  suddenly.  Alcon,  who  had  stood  beneath  the  bal- 
dachin of  the  President,  went  back  to  his  desk  with  a  grave  air, 
and  noticing  that  all  eyes  were  upon  him,  drew  out  his  key,  lifted 
the  walnut  lid,  put  his  head  in,  seemed  to  be  looking  for  some- 
thing, took  out  a  paper,  and  then,  like  a  man  who  has  made  up 
his  mind  and  is  in  search  of  a  victim,  asked: 

"  Will  the  secretary  please  inform  me  whether  the  Minister 
has  yet  put  in  an  appearance?  " 

Alcon,  seeing  that  his  party  could  not  win  that  day,  intended 
to  have  the  debate  postponed,  and  was  going  to  have  the  order  of 
the  day  altered,  because  of  the  absence  of  the  Minister,  when 
General  Ronderos,  opening  a  passage  for  himself  through  the 
groups  of  men  that  greeted  him  respectfully,  appeared  under  the 
arches  of  the  passage,  reached  the  session  hall,  crossed  the  hall 
with  a  firm  step,  and  took  a  seat  at  a  vacant  desk,  with  his  back 
to  a  window.  The  light  which,  coming  down  from  behind, 
shone  upon  his  gray  hair  and  gave  it  a  silvery  halo,  brought  out 
the  lines  of  his  face  very  strongly,  deepened  the  corners  of  his 
eyes,  and  made  his  martial  features  stand  out  clearly  in  lights 
and  shades. 

The  President  ordered  that  the  report  of  the  commission  ap- 
pointed by  him,  and  consisting  of  Alcon  and  Karlonoff ,  be  read. 
Alcon  went  up  to  the  center  of  the  hall,  where  he  spoke  in  a  low 
voice  with  one  of  the  senators.  He  inquired  where  he  could 
have  some  pages  of  the  report  copied.  One  of  the  clerks  went 
out  hastily  towards  the  office  of  the  copying  clerks,  and  Alcon 
followed  him.  He  passed  quickly  through  the  glass-covered 
corridors,  where  a  long  row  of  overcoats  was  seen  hanging  along 
the  wall.  He  made  his  way  through  a  dense  crowd  of  lobby- 
ists, and  came  to  the  empty  hall  which  was  adorned  only  by  por- 
traits of  former  presidents  wearing  the  tricolored  sash  across  the 
chest.  Passing  through  he  threw  stealthily  a  glance  at  these 
tricolored  sashes  that  had  for  him  an  irresistible  attraction,  and 


EQUALITY  249 

then  slipping  through  additional  groups,  with  a  mien  of  intense 
preoccupation  with  most  important  business,  and  knitting  his 
brow,  he  crossed  some  more  offices  until  he  at  last  arrived  at  the 
one  reserved  for  the  copying  clerks.  There  he  saw  a  dozen  of 
them  writing  away  in  haste,  bent  over  their  desks,  engaged  in 
drawing  up  copies  of  the  bill,  of  the  report  of  the  commission,  in 
letters  traced  beautifully  in  firm  and  careful  lines.  Alcon  gath- 
ered here  hurriedly  two  sheets,  returned  the  same  way,  and  with 
a  certain  affectation,  feeling  always  the  looks  of  the  public  fixed 
on  himself  and  his  doings,  handed  these  papers  up  to  the  sec- 
retary's table.  Then  he  passed  near  the  shorthand  reporters, 
made  a  sign,  as  if  to  say,  "Now,  pay  attention!  "  and  thus 
reached  his  seat  once  more,  sat  down  comfortably,  thrust  his 
beard  into  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  and  then  seemed  to  be  at  his 
ease,  with  the  assurance  of  a  man  who  is  ready  now  to  listen  to 
his  own  work,  to  relish  his  own  phrases.  There  was  a  moment 
of  expectancy,  and  the  whole  of  the  audience,  in  the  lobby,  in 
the  different  halls,  in  the  passages,  meanwhile  were  already  dis- 
cussing, whispering,  gesticulating,  winking  to  each  other,  with 
signs  of  mystery,  telling  each  other  of  astounding  news,  of  terri- 
ble revelations,  which  were  contained  i'n  that  voluminous  report. 

The  secretary  read  it.  It  was  a  document  in  which  there  was 
combined  all  the  technical  knowledge  of  the  "  chief  of  bridges 
and  highroads  "  with  the  astute  legal  lore  of  the  former  under- 
secretary. And  the  phrases  of  ancient  parliamentary  usage,  the 
antiquated  words  of  the  one  were  mingled  with  the  gallicisms 
and  the  scientific  barbarisms  of  the  other. 

"  In  conclusion,  honorable  senators,  your  commission  has  be- 
come convinced,  if  it  may  be  permitted  to  say  so,  in  view  of  the 
short  time  at  its  disposal,  that  the  contract  for  the  work  of 
canalization  is  a  monstrosity,  since  notwithstanding  that  the 
Government  was  authorized  by  Law  No.  137,  so  many  times 
cited  before,  and  there  is  mention  made  of  dams  and  dykes,  it 
does  not  say  that  these  are  to  be  moveable  dams,  because  of  the 
steep  cuts  in  the  mountain  chain;  and  this  fact  being  superim- 
posed, and  as  by  reason  of  that  the  whole  contract  is  rendered 
null  and  void,  .  .  .  ." 

The  report  wound  up  with  the  following  proposal: 

"  Dating  from  this  second  reading,  the  Senate  disapproves  of 
the  proposed  contract  of  canalization  and  colonization." 


250  PAX 

In  the  lobby  one  group  that  was  led  by  Landaburo  broke  out 
in  applause  at  this  juncture.  But  another  group  objected  to 
that.  There  were  mutterings,  confusion,  and  the  President 
seized  the  bell.  But  nobody  paid  any  attention,  and  the  uproar 
was  terrific.  In  the  whole  gallery,  and  upon  the  steps,  the  spec- 
tators kept  on  stamping  in  a  regular,  rhythmic  beat,  and  it  was 
just  like  a  dull  thunder  in  a  storm.  The  voices,  some  hoarse 
and  rude,  like  the  tones  of  an  overworked  organ,  others  shrill 
and  high,  like  those  of  flageolets,  contended  against  each  other 
in  that  hatred-charged  atmosphere  of  battle. 

"  Death  to  Ronderos!  .  .  .  Long  life  to  him!  ...  Be  still! 
.  .  .  Death  to  him!  " 

The  president  of  the  Senate,  placid,  allowed  this  scene  to  con- 
tinue, but  when  the  noise  decreased,  a  violent  ringing  of  his  bell 
was  heard.  And  Sanchez,  smiling  hypocritically,  remarked : 

"  The  presiding  officer  begs  the  gentlemen  in  the  lobby  re- 
spectfully to  have  the  kindness  to  moderate  their  manifesta- 
tions." 

An  applause  of  agreement  greeted  these  words. 

The  secretary  then  read,  in  order  to  begin  the  combat: 

"  Article  I.  The  contrast  of  canalization  and  colonization-  is 
disapproved  in  all  its  parts." 

At  this  all  looks  turned  to  Ronderos,  who  remained  serene,  as 
became  a  veteran  in  these  struggles.  For  all  those  present  the 
disapproval  bill  was  a  political  stroke,  which  was  aimed  at  the 
Cabinet,  and  which  would  mean  its  fall,  if  successful.  Landa- 
buro in  the  lobby  directed  the  tumult,  and  waited  only  for  the 
end  of  the  session,  with  the  contract  already  defeated,  in  order  to 
receive  Ronderos  in  the  big  plaza  with  a  hostile  demonstration. 
And  this  projected  demonstration,  the  first  in  a  series  to  come, 
was  to  be  the  first  blow  of  the  revolution,  the  first  spark  of  the 
fire.  Alcon  already  saw  disaster  overtaking  Roberto,  his  ab- 
horred rival.  With  the  whole  enterprise  dead,  he  and  his  would 
be  sacrificed.  .  .  .  Ah,  and  he  rejoiced  in  advance,  hoping  that 
the  hour  would  come  when  he  might  be  able  to  read  to  him  that 
paragraph  which  he  himself  had  added  to  the  outlined  project: 
"  The  deposit  of  one  million  francs  which  has  been  made  in 
behalf  of  the  treasury,  remains  there  in  favor  of  the  state,  as  also 
do  all  the  machinery  and  other  property  of  the  canalization 
enterprise." 


EQUALITY  251 

Karlonoff,  who  had  affiliated  anew  with  the  opposition,  since 
he  believed  the  cabinet  tottering,  obtained  the  floor  to  support 
the  report,  and  with  his  air  of  disdain  and  compassion  toward 
his  ignorant  adversaries  and  his  smile  of  satisfaction  with  his 
own  wisdom,  glad  to  feel  that  here  need  be  no  waste  of  statis- 
tics, supported  his  motion  by  a  speech  in  which  there  returned 
all  the  old  arguments  already  used  in  the  ministry  (under  the 
word  "  Canal,"  from  the  cyclopaedia)  and  in  the  columns  of  La 
Integridad. 

"  But  there  is  something  more  serious  than  all  this,  Mr.  Presi- 
dent," he  said  in  conclusion,  "  we  must  also  consider  this  ques- 
tion from  the  point  of  view  of  national  security." 

And  he  halted  for  an  instant,  enamored  of  this  phrase,  know- 
ing well  that  this  feature  would  stir  the  lobby. 

"  Yes,  yes,  it  is  a  national  question!  "  shouted  Landaburo. 

"  It  is,"  continued  Karlonoff  with  animation,  turning  his  eyes 
away  from  the  rostrum  of  the  presiding  officer  and  towards  the 
lobby,  "  it  is,  as  I  have  just  remarked,  a  question  of  national 
security.  It  is  even  more.  The  whole  Latin  race  in  America, 
yes,  the  whole  Latin  race,  gentlemen,  is  seriously  menaced. 
With  this  canalization  project  realized,  we  shall  be  invaded, 
just  as  the  Normans  once  invaded  Gaul.  In  place  of  proposing 
those  pacts  with  companies  from  other  continents,  I  should  pro- 
pose that,  if  canalization  is  really  needed,  if  it  be  indispensable, 
it  be  done  by  South  Americans  alone.  I,  as  former  editor  of 
the  Military  Album,  and  in  consequence  ex-officio  member  of 
the  whole  American  military  press,  address  myself  with  these 
present  words  not  only  to  those  who  at  this  moment  are  within 
reach  of  my  voice,  but  to  all  the  heads  and  officials  of  the  Latin 
republics,  in  order  that  we  may  unite  and  work  to  strengthen 
the  relations  between  the  soldiers  of  sister  nations,  who  have 
identical  origin,  who  in  the  future  will  have  an  equal  destiny, 
and  who  in  fratricidal  strife  have  been  sheltered  by  the  tents  of 
the  same  or  of  opposite  camps,  all  of  them  nevertheless  children 
of  the  great  Latin  family.  I  propose,  gentlemen,  an  idea  which 
occurs  to  this  moment :  if  this  canalization  of  the  Magdalena  is 
absolutely  necessary,  then  I  propose  that  it  be  done  by  a  com- 
pany made  up  from  Paraguay,  Ecuador  and  Nicaragua,  in  such 
a  manner  that  these  nations  may  come  to  know  each  other  better, 
and  that  this  be  the  beginning  of  bonds  of  mutual  esteem.  It  is 


252  PAX 

not  desirable  that  these  nations  should  disagree  and  harm  each 
other,  but  on  the  contrary  they  should  grow  and  consolidate 
themselves  for  the  benefit  of  all  Latin  America,  and  this,  gen- 
tlemen, stretches  from  the  wastes  of  northern  Mexico  to  the 
desert  table  lands  of  Patagonia.  To  resume,  gentlemen,  no 
canalization  of  the  Magdalena!  Let  us  be  ready  to  support, 
cost  what  may,  this  motto:  '  South  America  for  South  Amer- 
ica.' ' 

Alcon  did  not  want  to  speak.  He  did  not  desire  to  lose  him- 
self in  discussions.  The  important  point  was  the  voting,  and  in 
silence,  from  his  seat,  he  let  his  glance  travel  all  over  the  hall, 
and  with  slight  movements  of  his  head  he  went  on  counting  the 
senators  present  and  their  stand  on  the  question.  He  went  up  to 
the  baldachin  under  which  Sanchez  Mendez  sat  in  high  state. 

"  Write  two  lines  to  Benavides,"  he  murmured.  "  He  must 
come,  even  if  he  should  die  of  it." 

Sanchez  sent  a  new  emissary  to  the  house  of  the  invalid,  tell- 
ing him  that  the  fate  of  the  Integros  depended  on  him. 

"  How  is  Pinillos  going  to  vote?  "  asked  Sanchez  then. 

"  You  know  that  he  is  lame.  But  I  have  him  at  KarlonofP s 
side  and  Karlonoff  is  going  to  make  him  rise  for  his  vote  in 
time.  .  .  .  His  vote  is  decisive." 

Alcon  nodded  his  head,  but  took  over  his  eyeglasses  a  peep 
at  the  senator  whom  they  held  ready  in  front.  It  was  a  little 
man  with  an  enormous  bald  head,  with  trembling  limbs,  of  weak 
constitution,  his  head  sunk  between  his  shoulders,  an  inane  smile 
on  his  lips,  with  a  jaw  like  a  goat,  turbid  eyes,  eyes  of  an  idiot 
that  were  forever  seeking  the  ceiling.  This  imbecile,  victim  of 
a  cerebral  disease,  had  been  elected  without  himself  knowing 
why,  perhaps  because  of  some  transaction  between  two  political 
circles.  He  had  himself  taken  to  the  sessions  led  by  the  hand. 
When  he  entered  the  hall  he  did  so  tottering,  and  once  in  his 
chair  fell  always  back  into  his  usual  state  of  lethargy.  When 
he  slept  he  would  sob  and  sigh  like  a  child  who  falls  asleep 
after  crying  a  spell,  and  when  the  hour  of  voting  arrived  he 
grew  bewildered,  smiled  to  right  and  left,  stammered  unintelli- 
gible words,  made  signs  to  a  neighbor  to  have  him  write  his  vote 
down  on  the  ballot,  and  finally,  with  a  despairing  effort,  picked 
up  the  slip  of  paper  and  voted  without  being  aware  of  how  and 
on  what.  On  other  occasions  he  would  mimic  his  colleague, 


EQUALITY  253 

without  understanding  and  without  a  will  of  his  own,  when  he 
saw  that  they  rose  from  their  seats,  he  would  succeed  in  gaining 
his  feet,  manage  to  keep  standing  an  instant,  while  the  secretary 
counted  the  ballots,  and  then  would  let  his  shoulders  drop  again, 
sink  into  his  seat,  like  an  idiot,  looking  dully  into  empty  space. 

Karlonoff  concluded  his  speech,  and  satisfied  with  himself, 
nodding  his  head  and  wearing  his  malicious  smile,  he  went  into 
the  corridors  to  continue  there  his  arguments,  to  sum  up  his 
invectives,  and  to  utilize  phrases  which  in  the  heat  of  his  own 
eloquence  he  had  momentarily  forgotten,  being  meanwhile  the 
recipient  of  congratulations  and  handshakes. 

General  Ronderos  then  had  the  floor,  and  in  the  midst  of  an 
intense  silence  he  rose  with  perfect  calmness.  In  the  lobby  new 
anxiety  was  noticeable,  and  a  strong  movement  was  made  among 
the  curious  to  force  an  entrance  into  the  hall.  Those  who  by 
hundreds  had  remained  in  the  corridor,  eager  to  listen,  and  to 
gather  in  haste  some  of  those  telling  and  picturesque  phrases 
that  had  been  cheered,  pushed  and  crowded  those  that  stood  in 
their  way.  On  the  flight  of  steps  fronting  the  session  hall  necks 
were  craned,  a  large  throng  managed  to  gain  an  entrance,  shov- 
ing, closely  packed,  finding  fault  with  those  in  front,  so  that  the 
uproar  went  on  increasing  for  a  time  and  a  number  of  senators 
raised  their  heads  in  alarm,  as  though  afraid  that  suddenly  they 
might  be  swept  along  by  the  wave  of  half  crazed  people.  In  the 
diplomatic  box  and  in  that  of  the  reporters  a  whispering  of  curi- 
osity began,  so  much  so  that  the  four  stenographers  in  the  middle 
of  the  hall,  pencil  in  hand,  gaze  fixed  sidewise,  and  ready  to 
listen,  were  waiting. 

Ronderos  spoke  in  a  natural  tone  of  voice,  and  in  simple  and 
clear  terms  explained  the  whole  question  with  familiar  knowl- 
edge, keeping  his  exposition  of  it  on  territory  where  he  stood 
firm.  Then  he  drew  from  his  own  statement  of  the  case  power- 
ful arguments  to  destroy  those  of  his  adversaries,  and  without 
losing  his  serenity  and  his  impressiveness  for  a  moment,  he 
showed  clearly  the  legality  and  the  rectitude  that  the  Govern- 
ment had  observed  throughout  in  conducting  the  business,  con- 
cluding by  demonstrating  the  palpable  advantages  which  the 
nation  was  now  enjoying  from  it  all. 

He  enlivened  his  speech  with  fitting  quotations,  with  perti- 
nent illustrations,  and  with  some  rather  crude  soldier's  phrases. 


254  PAX 

"  Nothing  of  what  is  now  happening  is  a  surprise  to  me,"  he 
next  continued,  "  and  there  come  to  my  mind  the  words  of  a 
great  Spaniard,  Mendizabal,  to  whom  Spain  owes  a  great  deal  of 
her  progress.  *  Amongst  politicians  the  downfall  of  the  great 
tickles  the  small  fry.  The  masses  do  not  grow  enthusiastic  over 
success,  if  it  is  represented  by  a  single  man.  Collective  vulgar- 
ity tends  always  to  maintain  a  level.'  Having  sprung  from  the 
general  level  by  merit  alone,  my  importance,  my  distinction  have 
procured  me  only  the  hatred  of  my  enemies.  Those,  my  merits, 
have  raised  me  to  a  splendid  position:  Aliena  invidia,  esplen- 
dentem.  I  shine  by  reason  of  the  envy  of  others,  as  Titus 
Livius  says." 

Towards  the  end  of  his  speech,  raising  his  voice  and  putting 
more  warmth  both  into  his  delivery  and  his  glance,  he  turned 
upon  Alcon  and  Karlonoff,  whom  he  had  hitherto  not  men- 
tioned. He  began  to  sum  up  his  arguments  and  his  rejoinder, 
and  to  disqualify  the  campaign  made  against  himself  and  to 
rob  it  of  all  its  assumed  aspect  of  patriotism  and  justice,  he 
launched  into  a  tremendous  attack  on  Sanchez  Mendez.  He 
discharged  the  whole  force  of  his  bitter,  cutting  words  upon  the 
head  of  the  president  of  the  Senate. 

These  two,  he  said,  Karlonoff  and  Alcon,  knew  as  eye  wit- 
nesses about  the  facts,  with  what  scrupulous  care  this  question 
had  been  studied  by  his  department.  But  he  would  not  waste 
time  in  disproving  their  arguments.  These  had  been  analyzed, 
aye,  pulverized  already,  during  the  first  reading  and  debate  on 
the  bill.  He  preferred  this  time  to  face  the  leader,  the  real 
person  responsible  for  these  present  attacks  (and  at  these  words 
he  turned  toward  the  spot  where  was  seated  Sanchez  Mendez, 
who  cowered  at  this,  folded  his  hands  on  the  table  in  front  of 
him,  and  pretended  to  read  some  papers  on  it),  the  chief  of  the 
Integros,  who  under  pretext  of  an  administrative  question  had 
stirred  up  this  political  campaign  in  which  the  whole  govern- 
ment was  being  assailed,  and  in  doing  so  was  furnishing 
strength  and  arms  to  the  revolution,  thus  occasioning  the  first 
alarms  and  the  inspiration  to  a  disastrous  war.  But  he  himself, 
he  went  on  in  his  terrific  arraignment,  while  still  at  the  head  of 
the  government,  would  steadily  pursue  the  same  course,  would 
try  to  prevent  such  a  national  calamity,  would  conjure  all,  would 
take  upon  himself  all  hatred,  defying  the  wrath  of  his  open 


EQUALITY  255 

enemies,  such  as  Cardoso,  as  well  as  of  those  who  fought  from 
ambush  like  Karlonoff  and  Alcon,  of  the  deserters,  such  as  the 
president  of  the  Senate. 

"  If  I  am  unable  to  find  more  moderate  words,"  the  General 
exclaimed,  striking  his  hand  heavily  upon  the  desk,  "  it  is  be- 
cause I  am  conscious  of  the  great  responsibility  resting  with  me 
at  the  present  time.  Was  he  not  of  those  who,  ten  years  prior, 
had  helped  construct  that  constitution  which  had  given  peace  to 
the  Republic  during  the  past  decade?  Was  not  he  who  now  is 
my  adversary  my  colleague  in  the  cabinet,  he  who  since  has 
become  a  partizan  of  the  so-called  Revaluation?  I  shall  not 
detain  you  recalling  to  your  memory  the  causes  of  his  political 
ruin.  But  it  will  be  remembered  that  since  that  time,  without 
better  advice  than  to  cause  destruction,  without  other  incentive 
than  his  unholy  ambition,  he  has  turned  against  his  own 
achievements,  his  own  ideals,  and  has  made  an  alliance  with 
his  enemies  of  yesterday,  with  my  enemies  of  forever.  ...  Ah, 
once  he  had  lost  his  place  in  the  cabinet,  he  did  not  resign  him- 
self to  obscurity,  and  has  always,  out  of  the  most  odious  mo- 
tives, by  means  of  the  most  improper  alliances,  attempted  to 
become  again  a  prominent  figure.  ..." 

Sanchez  Mendez  had  withdrawn  towards  the  rear,  seeking 
the  darkness  which  the  ample  folds  of  the  curtains  on  the  bal- 
dachin afforded  him.  But  his  excitement  could  be  noticed  from 
the  nervous  trembling  of  his  hands,  when,  to  affect  indifference 
and  preoccupation,  he  took  off  his  eyeglasses,  played  with  them, 
twirled  them  in  his  fingers.  But  on  hearing  these  last  phrases, 
he  changed  color,  and  croaked : 

"  Mr.  Minister,  I  must  call  your  highness  to  order." 

"To  order!  .  .  .  Yes,  to  order!  "  scornfully  retorted  General 
Ronderos,  livid  with  indignation,  while  in  the  lobby  harsh  voices 
were  bawling:  "To  order!  To  order!"  .  .  .  Landaburo's 
rude  organ  could  be  easily  distinguished  amongst  these. 

A  redoublement  of  these  interjections  in  the  lobby  went  on 
like  rolling  thunder.  Arms  were  up  in  the  air.  The  spectators 
pushed  and  crowded  each  other.  Challenges  were  heard.  The 
flight  of  wooden  stairs  where  hundreds  were  in  a  solid  mass, 
creaked  ominously  as  though  about  to  give  way. 

The  orator  on  his  part,  when  these  interruptions  hailed  on 
him,  turned  his  face  towards  the  front,  in  a  line  with  the  Presi- 


256  PAX 

dent's  seat.  The  light  streaming  in  from  the  window,  striking 
him  from  afar,  brought  out  clearly  the  features  of  his  energetic 
face,  the  large,  bony  forehead,  the  thick  eyebrows,  the  curve  of 
his  nose,  the  bristling  mustache,  cut  short  at  the  lips,  the  salient 
jaw,  the  whole  of  that  countenance  which  revealed  a  dominating 
soul,  predestined  for  command  and  strife.  Even  the  manner  of 
raising  his  head,  which  became  erect  and  leaned  towards  the 
back,  had  an  imperious  air,  a  martial  one,  a  gesture  of  challeng- 
ing the  world,  as  if  in  that  heated  atmosphere,  before  that  hostile 
lobby,  he  felt  himself  to  be  on  a  battlefield,  facing  the  enemy. 

"  And  you  are  pleased  to  call  me  to  order?  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  On  the  contrary,  it  is  I  really  who  ought  to  call  your  excel- 
lency to  order,  because  in  imposing  silence  on  me  you  are  going 
beyond  the  limits  of  your  functions.  If  you  wish  to  defend 
yourself,  you  have  but  to  call  upon  the  vice-president  of  the 
Senate,  invest  him  temporarily  with  your  authority,  come  down 
from  your  platform,  and  reply  as  simple  senator  to  the  charges 
I  am  bringing  against  you.  Now  is  the  time  for  me  to  speak, 
and  I  shall  speak,  in  spite  of  you.  For  months  and  months, 
I  have  been  attacked  in  twenty  periodicals,  I  have  been  assailed 
in  every  tone  and  by  every  means,  and  I  have  kept  silent.  Al- 
though I  might  have  suspended  those  libelous  sheets,  I  have 
refrained  from  doing  so.  Therefore  I  have  waited  impatiently 
for  this  hour,  this  hour  when,  face  to  face,  before  the  whole  na- 
tion, we  should  have  a  decisive  duel.  And  now  that  the  day  has 
come,  instead  of  replying  to  me,  to  oppose  reason  with  reason, 
all  that  Sefior  Sanchez  Mendez  can  find  to  do  is  to  profit  by  his 
ephemeral  authority  and  to  attempt  to  impose  silence  on  me.  In 
this  decisive  moment  one  of  us  two  must  conquer.  ,  .  .  He  or 
I!  ...  The  nation  will  judge.  .  .  ." 

And  he  looked  about  him,  along  the  hall  itself,  then  turned  to 
the  right  and  threw  a  comprehensive  glance  at  the  lobby,  which 
now  listened  to  him  with  attention,  and  continued: 

"  The  chief  of  the  Integros  could  not  resign  himself  to  live  in 
-the  shade.  His  qualities  and  his  defects  explain  at  the  same 
time  his  defeats  and  his  ambitions.  Capricious  Nature  has 
fashioned  the  clay  of  this  temperament  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
include  more  than  a  mere  noble  name.  But  she  has  not  finished 
any  one  of  all  her  sketches,  but  left  everything  in  an  incomplete 
state.  Several  features,  several  touches  more,  and  he  would 


EQUALITY  257 

have  been  what  he  desired  to  be,  a  complete,  extraordinary  man. 
But  as  it  is,  unfinished,  he  is  only  an  extravagant  and  perni- 
cious figure.  At  one  and  the  same  time  fickle  and  obstinate, 
self-willed  and  weak,  impassioned  to  the  point  of  frenzy  in  pur- 
suing objects  which  by  turn  he  idolizes  and  destroys,  adoring 
to-day  the  gods  whom  to-morrow  he  curses,  he  has  spent  his  life 
in  retracing  all  paths  and  betraying  all  ambitions,  stirring  all 
kinds  of  conflagrations,  and  pursuing  the  inconstancy  of  his 
fixed  ideas  through  every  camp.  .  .  . 

"  And  this  former  believer  in  authority,  the  passionate  cham- 
pion of  constitutional  liberty,  who  in  days  gone  by  strongly  op- 
posed mere  agitators,  is  to-day  a  powerful  auxiliary  for  the 
revolutionaries,  all  the  more  useful  as  he  still  hides  under  the 
appearance  and  the  name  of  his  former  doctrines.  The  accusa- 
tions of  the  agitators  acquire  thereby  a  semblance  of  truth, 
something  like  the  impartial  verdict  of  history,  when  they  receive 
unction  at  the  hands  of  this  false  high  priest.  After  the  treble 
melancholy  bred  by  disaster,  age,  and  abandonment  by  others,  he 
has  lived  to  see  popularity  turning  once  more  towards  him, 
prodigally  lavishing  those  endearments  on  him  which  the  par- 
tizans  of  the  opposition  have  in  store  for  renegades.  And  all 
the  Volscians  impatient  to  assail  Rome  lift  up  in  triumph  this 
ruined  Coriolanus.  .  .  ." 

In  the  lobby,  on  the  row  of  the  journalists,  among  the  swarm- 
ing multitude  filling  the  passages,  invading  the  hall  itself  up  to 
the  desks  of  the  senators,  while  Ronderos  himself  now  sat  down, 
broke  out  a  thunder  of  applause,  and  following  that  the  roar  of 
rage  from  the  enemies  —  hoarse,  broken  voices,  voices  that 
issued  from  dry  throats.  From  amongst  this  multitude  of  men 
in  the  grip  of  political  passion,  there  came  threats,  insults, 
charges,  vociferations,  all  aimed  at  the  minister  who  had  just 
resumed  his  place  —  against  Bellegarde,  against  Avila  and 
Borja,  a  storm  of  angry  recriminations  which  the  president  of 
the  Senate  permitted  to  rage  on  at  the  risk  of  a  bloody  conflict 
in  the  lobby.  At  last,  seizing  the  bell  with  an  apparent  rush  of 
fear,  and  giving  the  act  the  appearance  of  impartiality  and  fair- 
ness, he  called  the  lobby  to  order,  and,  recognizing  in  him  their 
real  leader,  they  became  at  once  mute.  A  number  of  senators 
approached  the  Minister  to  shake  hands  with  him,  and  General 
Ronderos  then  went  out  into  the  corridor  to  take  the  air,  and 


258  PAX 

while  some  there  cheered  him  loudly,  he  strolled  up  and  down, 
perspiration  rolling  down  his  forehead,  in  a  state  of  agitation, 
breathing  hard. 

Alcon  went  up  to  the  president's  seat,  standing  on  the  steps 
leading  up,  leaning  against  the  table,  and  conferring  with  San- 
chez, profiting  from  the  prevailing  confusion  that  brought  a 
temporary  truce. 

"  This  is  not  a  question  of  speeches  but  of  votes,"  said  San- 
chez in  a  dull  voice,  his  features  decomposed  and  his  hands 
trembling. 

"  True,  but  they  have  the  majority." 

"And  Benavides?" 

"  Benavides  is  not  coming.     He  is  dying." 

"  They  will  beat  us  by  two  votes." 

A  new  emissary  was  sent  to  ascertain  whether  the  dying  man 
would  come. 

"  I  am  going  to  adjourn  the  session,"  said  Sanchez  Mendez. 
"  Let  us  postpone  the  vote  till  to-morrow." 

"  That  will  not  do,"  observed  Alcon.  "  To-morrow  General 
Torralba  is  going  to  arrive.  He  is  to  support  Ronderos,  and 
Karlonoff  will  have  to  withdraw,  for  he  is  his  substitute.  Let 
us  not  defer  the  vote." 

And  in  his  perplexity  the  president  of  the  Senate,  interrupt- 
ing the  general  conversation  that  had  ensued,  announced : 

"  The  session  will  be  continued." 

Silence  returned.  Alejandro  obtained  the  floor.  After  his 
speeches  on  the  occasion  of  the  first  debate,  and  after  the  one 
Ronderos  had  just  made,  he  did  not  choose  to  enter  into  any 
discussion  involving  the  basis  of  the  whole  matter,  but  his  pres- 
ent object  was  merely  to  make  a  statement  of  a  personal  charac- 
ter, in  the  name  of  himself  and  Senator  Avila. 

Everybody  was  listening  with  close  attention,  because  it  was 
known  that  he  as  well  as  Roberto  Avila  had  invested  in  the 
canalization  scheme  the  bulk  of  their  funds  and  risked  a  great 
fortune. 

"  We  are  soon  going  to  put  this  matter  to  a  vote,"  added  Ale- 
jandro, "  according  to  all  appearances.  The  friends  of  General 
Ronderos  are  in  the  majority.  ..." 

"  It  is  certain,"  exclaimed  Karlonoff,  "  that  you  beat  us  in 
numbers." 


EQUALITY  259 

"Very  well,"  Alejandro  went  on;  "let  us  state  that  in  this 
decisive  debate  Sefior  Avila  and  myself  declare  ourselves  spon- 
taneously disqualified.  We  have  a  voice,  but  no  vote.  By  our 
own  choice,  we  declare  the  minority.  The  vote  therefore  will  be 
lost  to  General  Ronderos,  but  he  requires  here  only  votes  of  full 
value.  Our  adversaries  only  count  votes,  while  we  weigh 
them." 

And  after  a  brief  eulogy  pronounced  by  him  in  behalf  of 
Ronderos,  and  his  patriotism,  he  went  over  to  the  side  of  Ro- 
berto, and  jointly  they  turned  to  go.  Ronderos  stretched  out  his 
hand  to  Alejandro: 

"  Yes,  this  will  be  a  defeat  that  honors  us,"  he  said. 

Karlonoff  slipped  over  between  the  desks,  and  whispered  to 
Sanchez : 

"  Then  we  have  the  majority.  .  .  .  We  shall  crush  them  by 
the  tactics  employed  at  Waterloo,  that  consisted  in  .  .  ." 

But  before  a  technical  explanation  could  unfold  itself,  the 
president  of  the  Senate  remarked  drily,  without  making  a  pause 
between  the  two  sentences: 

"  The  debate  will  now  be  closed.     It  is  closed." 

The  secretary  read  anew  the  paragraph  in  the  bill  by  which 
the  contract  was  declared  disavowed:  those  words,  read  in  a 
raised  voice,  vibrant,  and  having  a  sinister  sonority,  sounded 
like  a  court  sentence. 

Sanchez  Mendez  was  recovering  his  vigor,  seeing  now  tri- 
umph secure,  and  asked: 

"  Does  the  Senate  approve  of  the  paragraph  just  read?  " 

There  was  a  rising  in  the  rows  of  desks. 

"  Yes,  there  is  approval." 

"  Let  the  vote  be  verified,"  said  Karlonoff,  who  wished  to 
relish  the  victory  just  scored. 

"  Those  in  the  affirmative  will  please  rise  on  their  feet." 

Alcon  gave  the  signal,  rose,  and  behind  him  all  the  enemies 
of  Ronderos  followed  his  example.  The  secretary  counted  the 
vote. 

"  One  .  .  .  two  .  .  .  three  .  .  .  six  .  .  .  eight  .  .  .  nine  .  .  . 
and  .  .  ." 

Pinillos,  on  being  elbowed  by  Karlonoff,  stupidly  looked  on 
both  sides,  smiled,  grunted,  and  got  up  all  a-tremble. 

"  Ten,"  added  the  secretary. 


260  PAX 

In  the  lobby,  on  the  galleries,  some  applause  was  heard,  and 
Landaburo,  rising  in  the  tumult,  shouted: 

"  Bravo!     Death  to  the  Minister!  " 

Following  a  touch  on  the  bell  the  President,  in  a  voice  trem- 
bling with  excitement,  and  full  of  joy,  said: 

"  Those  who  are  in  favor  of  the  negative." 

The  other  side  had  risen  slowly,  keeping  a  calm  look  in  face 
of  their  defeat.  The  secretary  began  to  count  them : 

"  One!  .  .  .  Two!  .  .  .  Four!  .  .  .  Seven  .  .  .  eight  .  .  . 
nine  .  .  ." 

Pinillos  turned  in  his  seat  and  opened  his  eyes,  and  in  the 
belief  that  another  test  had  been  made,  and  always  smiling  with 
his  imbecile  beatitude,  rose  once  more.  The  secretary  halted 
a  moment,  but  then  declared  again: 

"Ten!" 

"  Even  vote.  .  .  ." 

"  No,  no,  .  .  ." 

After  the  feverish  tension  of  the  spirits,  seeing  that  the  irre- 
sponsible paralytic  had  equalized  the  vote,  defeated  it,  held  up 
the  final  decision  and  added  a  comic  note  to  the  drama,  the 
public  burst  out  in  roars  of  laughter,  laughter  that  shook  the 
ceiling. 

With  this  grotesque  incident  that  Pinillos  had  furnished,  after 
a  tension  lasting  for  hours,  cheerfulness  suddenly  was  reestab- 
lished in  the  minds  of-  those  present.  From  the  lobby,  from  the 
press  seats,  there  rained  cat  calls,  witty  sayings,  jokes,  all  of 
which  Pinillos  did  not  understand,  although  they  made  him 
smile  again,  perfectly  happy,  feeling  himself  the  center  of  all 
the  looks,  the  goal  of  all  the  smiles  of  the  others.  Only  Alcon 
and  Karlonoff  did  not  smile.  They  on  the  contrary  threw  him 
black  looks,  and  made  signs  to  him  that  he  had  acted  very 
foolishly.  The  imbecile  on  his  part,  glancing  around  and  see- 
ing on  the  one  hand  the  lobby  which  was  still  laughing  and  on 
the  other  the  senators  who  were  recovering  from  the  fit,  from 
being  happy  became  a  most  bewildered  creature,  bursting  first 
into  another  volley  of  hysterical  laughter,  and  then  broke  out 
in  a  flood  of  tears,  just  like  a  child  that  settles  down  to  a  good 
cry. 

Sanchez  Mendez,  knitting  his  brow  into  a  frown,  and  with 
that  air  of  an  Asiatic  despot  assumed  by  him  since  the  first  mo- 


EQUALITY  261 

ment  they  had  made  him  president  of  the  Senate,  threw  upon 
the  tumultuous  crowd  a  glance  of  penetrating  anger,  then 
grasped  the  bell  in  a  rage,  and  as  soon  as  the  whispering  had 
ceased,  the  boisterous  laughter  had  been  stilled,  he  said  in  a 
tone  of  command: 

"  The  presiding  officers  have  resolved  to  take  steps  for  the 
rectification  of  the  vote  just  taken." 

Alcon  and  Karlonoff  understood  his  maneuver  at  once.  They 
placed  themselves  in  the  seats  next  to  the  paralytic,  and  glued 
their  eyes  to  his.  The  latter  instantly  began  to  tremble,  without 
knowing  what  he  was  to  do.  But  then  he  vaguely  remembered 
that  he  had  gotten  up  from  his  seat  at  the  wrong  time.  When 
the  members  adverse  to  the  contract  stood  up,  Pinillos  remained 
seated.  When,  on  the  other  hand,  the  friends  of  Ronderos  rose, 
Pinillos  acted  in  the  like  manner.  He  was  huddled  in  his  chair 
and  did  not  budge.  The  voting,  therefore,  again  resulted  in 
both  sides  being  of  equal  strength,  and  this  was  announced 
amidst  a  violent  ringing  of  the  bell,  Sanchez  being  still  in  a 
towering  rage.  Bursts  of  laughter  broke  out  anew  on  every 
side.  But  the  President  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  admit 
the  battle  lost.  Seeing,  therefore,  that  Pinillos  had  two  watch- 
ers by  his  seat,  he  resolved  to  make  the  secretary  interrogate  the 
imbecile,  as  to  whether  his  "  vote  had  been  negative  or  affirma- 
tive," and  when  thus  asked  Karlonoff  and  Alcon  bent  over  him 
and  murmured  to  him,  both  at  the  same  time : 

"  Affirmative." 

Pinillos  appeared  to  have  an  instant  of  lucidity,  smiled,  made 
a  gesture  as  if  asking  pardon  of  the  President,  evidently  mean- 
ing to  inquire  of  Sanchez  if  he  should  comply  with  the  request. 
Then  all  became  silent.  And  Pinillos,  with  a  supreme  effort, 
bathed  in  perspiration,  with  contracted  lips,  so  that  his  teeth 
became  visible,  managed  to  unfetter  his  goat-like  jaws,  and  with 
a  guttural  bellow  succeeded  in  saying,  while  he  shook  from  head 
to  foot: 

".  .  .  ative!" 

Not  laughter  merely,  but  thunders  of  applause  greeted  this 
manifestation,  and  Pinillos,  smiling  with  joy,  satisfied  with  his 
achievement,  thought  he  had  at  last  done  the  proper  thing,  and 
so,  seeing  that  many  of  his  colleagues  now  rose  from  their  seats, 
and  that  they  went  out  to  chat  or  smoke,  and  to  be  at  their  ease, 


262  PAX 

concluded  he  would  do  the  same.  So  he  also,  supported  by  the 
arm  of  one  of  the  employees  of  the  Senate,  made  his  way  to  the 
outside,  found  himself  in  the  corridors,  where  he  took  quite  seri- 
ously the  felicitations  that  were  heaped  on  him  in  passing. 
And  believing  that  the  session  was  now  adjourned,  he  arrived 
in  the  vestibule,  where  his  eyes  met  the  long  file  of  overcoats  and 
umbrellas  against  the  wall,  took  at  random  a  hat  from  the  nail, 
and  crossing  the  different  halls,  came  at  last  to  the  inner  court 
which  had  been  invaded  by  new  crowds  of  people. 

General  Ronderos  was  strolling  about,  enjoying  a  smoke,  in 
one  of  the  halls  where  the  politicians,  in  groups,  under  the  scru- 
tinizing eyes  of  a  number  of  portraits,  were  discussing  and  com- 
menting on  the  events  of  the  day,  especially  the  problem  pre- 
sented by  the  unexpected  equality  of  votes,  the  probability  of 
triumph  for  the  one  or  the  other  party,  and  how  to  break  this 
unstable  equilibrium. 

At  that  minute  there  arrived  a  post  office  employee,  and 
handed  a  telegram  to  Ronderos,  which  read  as  follows:  "  Very 
urgent.  ...  I  follow  immediately  by  express  train',  to  occupy 
my  seat  in  the  Senate.  Very  cordially,  Torralba."  And  the 
friends  of  Ronderos  on  being  apprised  of  the  near  arrival  of 
Torralba,  began  at  once  to  calculate:  Will  he  be  here  this 
afternoon?  Will  he  succeed  in  deciding  the  balloting?  .  .  . 

Eight  days  before,  Torralba,  a  nonagenarian,  had  acceded  to 
the  requests  of  his  friends  who,  seeing  the  struggle  bound  to 
come,  had  asked  him  to  leave  his  retirement  —  to  rush  to  the 
defense  of  Ronderos,  not  alone  with  his  vote,  but  also  with  the 
prestige  of  his  name,  with  the  authority  imposed  by  virtue  of  a 
life  without  stain,  consecrated  in  former  days  to  the  service  of 
the  republic.  His  name  had  been  signed  to  three  successive 
constitutions;  during  his  long  life  he  had  exercised  a  powerful 
influence  on  national  politics,  and  he  had  furthermore  the 
weight  of  his  extreme  age.  It  seemed  as  though  his  white  hair 
shone  with  the  glow  of  the  sun  lighting  Colombia  herself. 

Sanchez  Mendez,  Alcon,  Karlonoff  and  others  conferred  to- 
gether in  the  adjoining  hall,  in  a  nook  of  the  window.  Should 
they  adjourn  or  suspend  the  session?  What  turn  would  this 
affair  now  take  ?  What  did  parliamentary  strategy  counsel  in  a 
case  like  the  present?  Should  they  not  send  anew  to  Bena- 
vides?  This  situation,  this  equality  of  votes  could  not  last. 


EQUALITY  263 

But  there  arrived  just  that  instant  a  messenger  from  Gonzalez 
Mogollon,  quite  out  of  breath,  because  he  had  been  obliged  to 
carve  by  force  a  way  for  himself  through  the  multitude  that 
filled  the  anterooms  and  corridors,  the  stairs,  the  passageways 
of  the  capitol.  He  announced  that  Benavides  was  going  to  be 
there  almost  immediately.  There  had  been  a  regular  combat. 
The  sick  man  had  refused,  declaring  that  he  was  too  weak  to 
come,  and  the  family,  too,  had  with  tears  and  outcries  protested 
against  his  being  torn  from  a  sickbed.  But  Gonzalez  Mogollon 
had  proved  too  obstinate  for  them,  had  employed  force  in  dress- 
ing the  invalid,  in  spite  of  two  failures  during  which  the  dying 
man  had  once  more  taken  to  his  bed,  and  he  had  finally  suc- 
ceeded in  conveying  him  in  a  sedan  chair.  .  .  . 

"  Here  he  comes!  .  .  .  We  are  saved!  .  .  .  We  are  going  to 
prolong  the  session;  it  is  only  a  question  of  time!  .  .  .  Let 
some  one  talk!  .  .  .  Let  that  ignoramus  Sordo  make  a  long 
speech!  " 

And  upon  instructions  from  Sanchez  Mendez,  Alcon  ap- 
proached Sordo,  a  wealthy  estate  owner  who  was  in  politics  for 
the  first  time.  A  few  years  before  he  had  been  living  in  a 
poor  way,  owner  of  an  unproductive  wood,  when  a  peon  of  his 
had  discovered,  quite  by  accident,  China  bark  in  that  forest  of 
his.  Sordo  then,  without  in  the  least  understanding  the  whole 
business,  had  become  rich,  had  acquired  the  reputation  of  an 
able  man,  of  a  consummate  financier,  likewise  become  corre- 
spondent of  all  the  banks  in  the  country,  and  was  now  consid- 
ered a  personage  of  unquestionable  competence  in  all  fiscal  mat- 
ters. Senator  Sordo,  whose  name  fitted  him  exactly,  for  he  was 
horribly  deaf,  understood  how  to  utilize  his  defective  sense  of 
hearing,  for  when  he  gave  incoherent  answers  people  would  at- 
tribute it  to  his  cunning  so  as  not  to  be  caught  by  captious 
questions.  Alcon  approached  him,  while  Sanchez  Mendez 
again  occupied  his  post  upon  the  raised  platform,  rang  the  bell, 
and  announced  that  the  discussion  of  the  bill  would  be  at  once 
resumed,  since  the  last  vote  had  not  resulted  in  a  legitimate 
issue. 

"  You  do  the  talking,"  Alcon  contrived  to  let  Sordo  know  by 
signs. 

And  the  latter,  who  believed  himself  to  be  indispensable  and 
who  really  fancied  that  his  criticisms  were  listened  to,  his  rea- 


264  PAX 

sonings  appreciated,  rose  and  obtained  the  floor.  In  a  color- 
less voice,  in  a  hoarse  bawling,  thumping  his  desk  so  sonor- 
ously that  only  he  himself  could  not  hear  the  echoes  of  it,  he 
started  a  speech  in  which  he  scarcely  ever  touched  as  much  as 
the  rim  of  the  subject  matter  he  pretended  to  discuss.  He 
spoke  of  his  childhood  spent  in  a  village,  of  his  former  poverty, 
of  quinine,  of  his  honor,  his  credit,  his  fortune,  a  thing  very 
far  removed  from  politics,  and  then,  infuriated  by  these  reminis- 
cences, he  let  loose  on  all  governments  in  the  world,  on  the  poets 
(whom  he  particularly  abominated),  on  learned  men,  on  elec- 
tions, announced  that  he  would  reject  his  salary  as  senator; 
then  he  maintained  the  impurity  of  all  elections,  and  of  suf- 
frage in  general,  observed  that  for  the  first  time  in  the  whole 
world  an  honorable  man  (he  himself)  had  been  chosen,  and  that 
this  meant  a  new  era,  because  now  politics  and  governments 
would  be  directed  by  practical  men,  men  used  to  work,  men 
without  books,  without  education,  but  with  money  and  with  good 
intentions. 

His  fellow-members  in  the  senate,  feeling  themselves  attacked, 
nevertheless  did  not  mind  him,  he  being  a  plain,  rough  man. 
So  they  let  him  talk  while  they  looked  with  misgivings  at  the 
clock.  The  people  in  the  lobby,  knowing  that  Sordo  was  inor- 
dinately fond  of  applause,  made  the  gesture  of  applause,  opened 
their  mouths  in  silence,  and  opened  and  joined  their  hands,  but 
without  clapping  them,  and  he,  Sordo,  with  his  deafness,  imag- 
ining that  words  of  loud  acclaim  were  filling  the  hall,  and  that 
handclappings  and  cheers  were  thundering  in  it,  never  suspect- 
ing that  not  a  sound  was  in  reality  emitted,  would  smile  with 
satisfaction,  would  salute  the  public  with  great  pleasure,  just 
like  rope-dancers  do  after  executing  a  perilous  feat,  and  would 
conclude  with  his  favorite  phrase:  "This  country  is  being 
ruined  by  wiseacres  and  priests.  .  .  .  We  need  above  all  prac- 
tical men,  so  that  ..." 

But  the  finale  to  his  address  was  this  time  throttled  by  the 
big,  rough  voice  of  Gonzalez,  who,  across  the  adjoining  halls, 
was  announcing  himself,  in  tones  of  increasing  volume : 

"  Here  I  am  bringing  him.  .  .  .  Although  the  man  is  dying ! 
.  .  .  We  shall  win!  ...  I  am  attending  to  everything  ...  I 
surmount  every  difficulty!  " 

The  enemies  of  Ronderos  were  almost  out  of  their  senses  with 


EQUALITY  265 

joy  that  reenforcements  were  arriving  for  the  definitive  assault. 
Amidst  general  excitement  they  saw  the  sedan  chair  being  car- 
ried almost  as  far  as  the  desks,  saw  the  small  door  of  the  vehicle 
being  opened,  and  a  livid  face  appear  at  the  opening,  with  two 
eyes  that  glowed  with  fever,  saw  Benavides  being  carried  out, 
wrapped  in  mufflers,  coughing,  grumbling,  and  at  last  being 
buried  in  a  chair  near  the  President's  platform. 

Landaburo  in  the  lobby  took  care  that  the  people  whom  he  led 
should  salute  him  with  a  storm  of  greetings. 

"  Three  cheers  for  the  Integra!  .  .  .  Longjife  for  the  patriot 
who  would  rather  die  at  the  foot  of  his  flag!  " 

It  was  now  four  o'clock.  The  sun  of  the  hot  afternoon  en- 
tered the  hall  with  a  reddish  splendor,  and  its  rays  added  to  the 
breathless  atmosphere  new  waves  of  heat.  The  air  was  oppres- 
sive, charged  with  passions,  and  in  the  whole  precinct  of  the 
Senate  there  reigned  a  sultry  closeness  presaging  a  tempest. 

Alcon  seeing  victory  assured,  although  it  was  the  usual  hour 
of  adjournment,  moved  up  to  the  table  in  the  center,  bent  over 
the  green  cloth  covering  the  table,  hurriedly  made  a  communica- 
tion, which  when  the  secretary  came  to  read  it  a  moment  later 
sounded  like  a  challenge : 

"  The  Senate  constitutes  itself  in  permanent  session." 

Rapidly  the  President  put  the  matter  to  discussion,  and  or- 
dered that  it  be  voted  upon. 

Again  Alejandro  and  Roberto  abstained  from  voting,  and  the 
result,  including  the  votes  of  Benavides,  gave  victory  to  the  band 
hostile  to  Ronderos.  The  battle  was  won  for  the  Integros,  lost 
for  the  cabinet. 

Seeing  victory  insured,  and  afraid  that  Benavides  might  faint 
before  the  final  vote,  Karlonoff  made  his  way  to  the  central  table, 
and  amidst  a  silence  in  which  only  the  hurried  breathing  of  the 
sick  man  could  be  heard,  handed  up  another  motion,  namely: 

"  The  Senate  considers  itself  sufficiently  informed,  and  pro- 
ceeds to  disapprove  the  contract  on  canalization." 

There  spoke  next  several  senators,  both  for  and  against  the 
matter,  and  in  their  speeches  allowed  their  patriotism,  their  rec- 
titude, the  elevation  of  their  views  clearly  to  be  perceived.  They 
treated  the  matter  from  every  point  of  view,  from  all  its  aspects, 
with  a  torrent  of  erudition,  of  law,  and  of  talent. 

These  eminent  orators,  these  distinguished  senators,  concluded 


266  PAX 

by  making  it  plain  that  under  no  circumstances  could  they 
agree  to  haste  in  a  business  of  such  gravity,  nor  to  disturb  the 
calm  of  the  Senate. 

But  Sanchez  Mendez  and  his  men,  without  listening  to  these 
reasons,  resolved  to  profit  from  the  favorable  circumstances  ob- 
taining, and  to  administer  the  deadly  blow  by  proceeding  with 
the  act  invalidating  the  contract.  Thus  Sanchez  M,endez,  while 
the  last  speech  was  still  being  delivered,  exclaimed  in  a  solemn 
and  decisive  voice: 

"  The  discussion  is  going  to  be  closed.  .  .  .  There  re- 
mains .  .  ." 

"  I  demand  the  floor,"  interrupted  Roberto,  speaking  from  the 
arches  which  gave  entrance  to  the  hall,  quickly  flinging  away  a 
cigarette,  and  passing  up  towards  his  seat. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

OBSTRUCTION 

WHEN  it  became  known  that  General  Torralba  would  arrive 
that  evening,  the  friends  of  Ronderos  determined  to  gain  time, 
even  if  a  desperate  effort  should  be  required.  Karlonoff,  who 
was  his  substitute,  would  then  have  to  absent  himself  from  the 
Senate,  and  the  majority  be  shifted  in  favor  of  Ronderos.  It 
was  no  longer  a  mere  question  of  defending  or  saving  the  con- 
tract, but  of  sparing  the  upright  old  general,  the  noble  patriot, 
the  disgrace  of  a  censure  and  depriving  his  antagonists  of  the 
pleasure  of  vanquishing  him.  It  was,  above  all,  a  political 
question  now,  victory  or  ruin  for  a  cabinet  which  had  done  its 
utmost  to  avoid  war  and  internal  troubles. 

"  What  is  being  done  now,  Mr.  Secretary?  "  asked  Alcon,  who 
was  perfectly  aware  of  the  state  of  affairs,  but  wished  to  see 
business  in  the  Senate  resumed  so  as  to  have  the  matter  in  hand 
done  with. 

The  secretary,  although  fatigued  from  so  many  hours  of  con- 
tinuous work,  replied  nevertheless  in  his  customary  sonorous 
voice,  reading  the  text  of  the  written  motion: 

"  The  Senate  considers  itself  sufficiently  enlightened  and  pro- 
ceeds .  .  etc.  ,  .  ." 


OBSTRUCTION  267 

Sanchez  Mendez,  with  a  gesture  of  annoyance,  looked  to  the 
right  and  left  of  him,  seeking  a  means  of  preventing  Roberto 
from  speaking;  but  not  discovering  any  feasible  method  of  help- 
ing him  out  of  his  predicament,  bent  his  head,  and  then,  out  of 
humor,  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair. 

"  You  have  the  floor,"  he  then  said  to  Roberto,  curtly,  "  but  I 
must  request  the  honorable  Senator  to  be  brief." 

Roberto  then  began  his  speech.  He  spoke  slowly,  gravely, 
but  in  his  eyes,  on  his  lips,  there  was  playing  a  spark  of  irony,  a 
jocular  smile,  while  he  indulged  at  length  in  an  exordium.  He 
started  out  with  the  declaration,  that  in  accord  with  his  friend 
Alejandro,  he  would  abstain  from  casting  a  vote,  but  that  he 
believed  it  would  be  expedient  and  proper  to  elucidate  a  number 
of  points  on  the  subject  of  canalization  of  rivers,  points  which 
^perhaps  had  not  been  taken  sufficiently  into  account.  It  had 
been  claimed  that  the  Senate  had  been  sufficiently  enlightened. 
But  he  scarcely  thought  so.  Alcon,  Karlonoff,  all  the  enemies 
of  Ronderos  changed  their  position  on  hearing  this,  and  moved 
in  their  seats,  impatiently,  protesting  in  low  voices  against  this 
statement.  What?  They  were  on  the  point  of  closing  the  de- 
bate. Evening  was  approaching,  and  they  had  had  four  solid 
hours  of  continuous  session  in  this  stifling  atmosphere.  And 
now,  when  they  were  about  to  take  the  decisive  vote  on  the  mat- 
ter, a  new  discussion  was  being  announced,  a  long  speech, 
merely  for  the  purpose  of  delay,  solely  in  order  to  wear  them  out, 
to  exasperate  them,  now  that  the  other  side  was  unable  to  defeat 
them.  .  .  But  Roberto,  for  one  hour,  for  two  hours,  with  an 
even  voice,  with  a  secret  pleasure  on  noticing  the  impatience  of 
his  adversaries,  went  on  with  his  elaborate  dissertation  in  which 
he  touched  on  nearly  all  the  big  rivers  in  the  world,  the  gener- 
ators of  civilization,  the  parents  of  industry,  and  with  perfect 
calm  spoke  of  the  mysterious  Ganges,  then  passed  on  to  the 
Nile  and  its  fecund  delta,  and  next  to  the  Rhone  River,  which 
furnished  him  with  a  bright  example  of  progress  as  developed 
by  a  river. 

"  To  the  question!  "  exclaimed  the  President,  and  in  his  re- 
mark could  be  distinctly  felt  his  ill  dissimulated  rage,  the  wrath 
of  disappointed  hopes. 

"  I  am  illustrating  the  question,"  retorted  Roberto  with  equa- 
nimity. "  The  President  will  admit  that  I  am  touching  on  new 


268  PAX 

points  which  are  wrapped  up  in  the  motion  that  we  are  discuss- 
ing now."  And  then  he  continued: 

"  Yes,  honorable  senators,  on  this  review  of  facts  connected 
with  all  the  canalized  rivers,  and  those  which  may  be  canalized 
hereafter,  we  must  not  forget  the  Rhone  River,  which  has  been 
a  forerunner  and  exemplar  of  the  history  of  civilization  of 
western  Europe.  In  order  to  throw  new  light  on  this  discus- 
sion, I  trust  you  will  agree  with  me  that  it  is  not  only  useful 
and  to  the  purpose,  but  absolutely  indispensable  to  outline  the 
biography  of  this  water  highway,  one  that  carries  such  vast 
masses  of  water  and  serves  so  many  important  aims.  And  when 
I  employ  the  word  biography,  I  consider  the  term  one  that  may 
fitly  be  applied.  For  it  is  easily  demonstrable  that  a  river  is  an 
organism,  a  living  being,  which  considered  both  from  the  view- 
point of  space  and  time,  from  the  geographical  reach  of  its 
course,  and  in  fulfilling  its  historical  task,  with  an  apparent 
expenditure  of  will  power  and  intelligence,  reproduces  all  the 
vicissitudes  of  human  life.  The  Rhone,  so  infused  with  the  im- 
portance of  its  mission,  as  tireless  as  the  Nile  itself,  and  like  the 
latter  a  builder  of  fertile  land,  a  propagator  of  ideas  and  a 
cradle  of  various  races,  gathers  up  the  heritage  of  the  Greco- 
Egyptian  river,  and  when  the  Nile  ends  its  existence,  the  Gallo- 
Roman  river  still  continues  its  life  in  the  service  of  Progress." 

"  No  more  rivers!  "  .  .  .  "  We  want  the  vote!  "  now  shouted 
Landaburo  from  the  lobby. 

"  The  Rhone  is  the  child  of  its  works  and  the  creator  of  its 
own  subject  territory,"  Roberto  went  on  undisturbed.  "  When 
I,  a  few  years  ago,  strolled  through  those  regions,  the  thought 
occurred  to  me  that  the  whole  of  the  immense  valley  which  it 
waters  —  cities,  meadows,  vineyards  —  all,  all,  is  the  fruit  of 
those  fecundating  waters.  The  grand  monuments  of  architec- 
ture which  mirror  themselves  in  its  surface,  the  ampitheaters  of 
Orange,  the  tombs  of  Aries,  and  the  palaces  of  Avignon,  were 
made  out  of  rock  fragments  that  the  river  many  centuries  ago  tore 
from  the  mountains  it  came  from,  boulders  and  rock  which  the 
Rhone  next  rolled  along  towards  regions  in  the  south  which 
afterwards  it  bound  up  with  the  life  of  humanity,  in  order  that 
in  the  end  these  very  rocks  should  be  converted  into  huge  build- 
ing stones  which  in  their  turn  would  breath  history  and  would 
guard  the  soul  of  the  nations  and  the  record  of  the  centuries." 


OBSTRUCTION  269 

In  clearly  and  soberly  enunciating  these  sentences  Roberto 
scanned  with  a  humorous  smile  the  faces  of  his  opponents  who, 
buried  in  their  seats,  let  their  eyes  wander  over  the  outlines  of 
the  cornices,  the  blue  arched  ceiling,  the  nude  walls,  bare  as 
those  in  a  Protestant  house  of  worship.  They  accepted  with  a 
mute  anger  all  these  literary  tirades,  tirades  which  in  them- 
selves were  so  innocent  and  harmless,  and  the  placidity  of 
whose  workmanship  contrasted  so  strongly  with  the  acerbity  of 
the  moment,  so  that  they  almost  seemed  a  personal  affront,  an 
exasperating  jest. 

"  Please  confine  yourself  to  the  question  under  discussion," 
said  Sanchez,  while  his  hand  reached  out  with  a  certain  threat- 
ening movement,  in  the  direction  of  his  bell.  "  I  request  the 
honorable  Senator  once  again  to  be  sparing  in  his  remarks." 

"  Put  the  Jockey-Senator  out!  "  howled  Landaburo  from  the 
lobby. 

"  We  have  so  far  considered  this  servant  of  mankind,"  con- 
tinued Robert,  losing  not  the  smallest  particle  of  his  equanimity, 
"  under  but  one  aspect.  And  now,  for  the  purpose  of  analogy 
with  our  own  stupendous  Magdalena  River,  and  to  elucidate 
sufficiently  this  whole  problem,  we  must  look  at  it  from  another 
point  of  view,  from  that  of  the  actual  course  it  pursues.  All  I 
have  said,  and  all  I  am  going  to  add  to  make  the  matter  plain, 
connects  in  the  most  direct  manner  with  the  question  of  canaliza- 
tion, and  as  this  most  important  phase  of  the  business  has  not 
yet  been  considered  at  all,  the  Senate  will  thank  me  for  treating 
it  extensively.  .  .  .  The  President  has  already  perceived  that  if 
I  enter  into  this  aspect  of  the  case  it  is  because  neither  the 
learned  Doctor  Alcon,  nor  any  other  authority  so  far  heard  — 
and  I  know  that  nobody  will  or  can  deny  this  statement  —  has 
at  all  paid  any  attention  to  it.  Nor  can  the  whole  matter  be 
rendered  sufficiently  plain  without  going  into  it."  And  Roberto 
smilingly  proceeded: 

"  Thus  it  would  appear  that  Nature  herself  foresaw  the  des- 
tinies of  those  two  great  waterways,  the  Magdalena  and  the 
Rhone.  The  Rhone  is  born  high  up  among  the  eternal  glaciers, 
runs  along  through  a  triumphal  avenue  of  tall  obelisks  of  ice, 
leaps  and  dallies  all  around  the  rocks,  bounds  forward  in  cas- 
cades, is  lulled  to  sleep  in  the  quiet  nooks  of  the  valleys  below, 
and  shows  all  the  enthusiasm,  the  caprices,  the  cheerfulness  and 


270  PAX 

the  enchanting  uselessness  of  infancy.  Then  it  advances  a  bit, 
and  arrives  before  the  walls  of  Geneva,  cuts  through  the  lake, 
encounters  the  pure  waters  of  another  river,  and  the  volume  of 
both  streams  join  and  for  some  time  follow  the  same  course,  in 
the  same  bed,  without  mingling,  the  pellucid  waves  of  the  one 
current  not  losing  themselves  by  piercing  the  muddy  waves  of 
the  other.  But  in  the  end  they  do  mix,  become  perturbed  and 
impregnated  with  ooze,  in  which  fact  may  be  seen  a  symbol  of 
the  eternal  combat  and  of  the  inevitable  defeat  in  which  the 
virginal  souls  are  worsted  by  the  impure  souls.  ..." 

"  Benavides  is  fainting,  about  to  die,  .  .  .  and  there's  no  end 
to  this  speech !  .  .  .  Victory  is  escaping  me !  ...  The  thing  is 
dragging  on!  "  .  .  .  This  was  what  Sanchez  Mendez  was  think- 
ing to  himself,  while  everybody  else  would  have  thought  him 
asleep,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  shaking  of  his  hunched  shoul- 
ders and  the  nervous  clutch  of  his  hands  grasping  the  handle  of 
his  bell,  ready  to  ring  it  again  in  a  frenzy  of  impatience. 

"  This  is  becoming  unbearable!  "  muttered  Karlonoff. 

"This  is  never  going  to  finish!  "  exclaimed  Alcon,  while  he 
was  closely  watching  the  almost  lifeless  Benavides,  who  had 
dropped  in  a  faint  upon  his  desk. 

But  just  then  Landaburo  got  reenforcement  in  the  person  of 
Socarraz,  who  at  the  head  of  a  noisy  band  roughly  made  his 
way  into  the  lobby. 

And  in  the  midst  of  the  hot  breath  of  fierce  hatreds  the 
brandy-flavored  voice  of  Socarraz  rose: 

"  Down  with  all  the  thieves  of  the  canalization  project!  " 

Roberto  distinguished  in  the  shadows  of  the  lobby  the  face  of 
Socarraz,  smiled  to  himself,  and  without  being  the  least  dis- 
turbed by  the  incident  continued  in  his  speech. 

"  On  its  arrival  at  Lyon,  this  river,  so  abounding  in  its  re- 
sources, just  as  does  our  own  Magdalena  when  it  has  reached 
the  Salto  de  Honda,  changes  completely  its  habits,  its  physiog- 
nomy. The  child  becomes  a  man.  The  Rhone  now  under- 
stands its  real  mission.  It  strikes  out  determinedly  on  its 
straight  path  to  the  sea.  A  useful  life  begins  now  for  this  river 
which  enters  upon  a  period  of  enjoyment  and  of  labor.  The 
river  begins  to  show  on  its  bosom  vessels  of  every  size  and  kind, 
and  it  shares  in  the  industrial  activity  of  the  cities  on  its  shores, 
and  devotes  itself  to  the  agricultural  toil  of  those  same  fields 


OBSTRUCTION  271 

which  the  river  itself  has  formed  with  its  fruitful  fertilizing 
mud,  mingled  with  the  sands  it  has  hurled  along  for  great  dis- 
tances in  the  course  of  centuries." 

"  Silence!  Silence!  "  bellowed  the  menacing  voices  of  Socar- 
raz  and  his  followers. 

Roberto  looked  the  brawling  throng  in  the  face,  waited  quietly 
till  the  noise  began  to  subside,  and  then  went  on  again : 

"  And  in  thus  developing  its  destiny  into  one  of  useful  labor, 
one  adequate  to  its  nature,  the  Rhone  acquires  and  manifests 
all  its  splendor,  its  majesty,  and  its  beauty.  Already  its  course 
runs  through  shadows,  winds  around  islands,  embraces  with 
languid  arms  forests  and  meadows,  and  then  flows  in  a  straight 
line  through  a  clear  canal,  reflecting  on  its  way  the  azure  of  the 
sky,  absorbing  the  serenity  of  the  mornings,  and  in  hiding  at 
last  in  the  sea  it  gleams  with  the  ardent  sun  of  Provence.  ..." 

The  irritation,  the  anxiety  of  the  adversaries  went  on  increas- 
ing, and  at  intervals  there  arrived  from  afar  the  roar  and  shout- 
ings of  throngs  somewhere  within  the  legislative  building,  the 
crackling  of  fireworks. 

The  shades  of  early  evening  began  to  invade  the  senatorial 
hall.  The  walnut  of  the  wainscoting  and  of  the  desks  looked 
already  quite  black.  Everything  took  on  blurred  outlines.  The 
masses  of  spectators  in  the  lobby  formed  a  shapeless  dark  accu- 
mulation. Beneath  the  heavy  silk  curtains  of  the  platform 
where  the  President  sat  enthroned,  the  obscurity  became  pal- 
pable. And  in  the  rear  of  them  the  eyeglasses  worn  by  Sanchez 
glittered  like  the  pupils  of  a  wild  beast  in  its  cave.  Roberto's 
voice  sounded  more  and  more  feeble,  and  he  asked  for  a  glass 
of  water.  He  himself,  feeling  tired,  began  to  wonder  whether 
his  strength  would  last  until  the  moment  of  General  Torralba's 
arrival.  Would  he  come?  .  .  .  Would  perhaps  that  last  re- 
source in  which  he  himself  was  exhausting  himself  prove  use- 
less? During  a  short  pause  he  asked  Alejandro: 

"  Have  you  recognized  Don  Melchor?  " 

"De  Avilay  Castillo?" 

"  No,  the  other  one." 

"Alcon?" 

"  Neither." 

And  he  continued,  moistening  his  lips: 

"  The  river,  reflecting  the  most  varied  landscapes,  .  .  ." 


272  PAX 

"No  more  about  landscapes!  "  came  the  chorus  of  protests 
from  the  lobby. 

"  The  most  varied  landscapes,"  broke  out  the  orator  again, 
"  mimicking  the  wonders  of  Nature  .  .  ." 

A  redoublement  of  thumpings  on  the  benches  near  the  steps 
of  the  flight  of  stairs  leading  out  of  the  hall  in  front  drowned 
the  speaker's  voice.  But  Roberto  did  not  interrupt  his  speech. 
The  storm  of  noises,  however,  gained  in  volume,  until  it  re- 
sembled the  rumblings  of  thunder.  Allowing  the  storm  to  spend 
itself  harmlessly,  Roberto  crossed  his  arms  over  his  bosom,  and 
then  went  on  exactly  where  he  had  stopped: 

"  Mimicking  the  wonders  of  Nature  and  of  history :  White 
cities  in  the  Dauphiny,  darksome  villages  in  the  Cevennes,  Ro- 
man ruins,  theaters,  colossal  remnants  of  former  imperial  edi- 
fices devoted  to  gladitorial  contests,  ancient  tombs;  huge  towers 
of  the  Midele  Ages  that  once  were  frowning  from  the  brink  of 
mighty  precipices,  Gothic  cathedrals  that  bless  its  waters  as  they 
flow  past.  And  this  river  that  rushes  from  Geneva  to  Avignon, 
from  the  glacial,  Protestant  Rome  to  the  poetical  papal  Rome, 
portraying  with  pleasure  all  the  arts,  conveying  all  ideas  and 
beliefs,  and  which  dies  majestically  at  Aries,  the  latter  at  one 
time  being  the  rival  of  Byzantium  and  almost  the  center  of  that 
wide  world  where  ruled  the  Caesars.  ..." 

"  Vote!  Vote!  "  shouted  a  number  of  hoarse  voices  from  the 
passages.  Roberto  drew  out  his  handkerchief  and  wiped  his 
moist  forehead. 

"Let  him  follow  the  dying  river!"  howled  some  others, 
laughing.  "Let  him  also  sail  on!  ...  As  far  as  the  ocean! 
.  .  .  Hurry,  hurry!  " 

"  We  want  the  vote!  "  the  chorus  in  the  gallery  was  howling 
back. 

"  It  is  necessary  to  consider  the  nature  of  this  river  from  other 
points  of  view,"  said  the  speaker.  .  .  . 

"No!  .  .  .  No!"  clamored  others  from  out  of  the  semi- 
obscurity  of  the  session  chamber. 

"  Yes,  .  .  .  yes,  ...  let  him  continue,"  replied  still  other 
voices  from  the  lobby,  who  were  amused  by  this  ceaseless  bel- 
lowing. 

"  It  is  already  night,"  exclaimed  Alcon  in  a  nervous  flutter, 
while  he  still  held  the  pulse  of  Benavides  in  his  hand. 


OBSTRUCTION  273 

As  though  this  remark  had  suggested  new  images  to  Roberto, 
he  went  on  afresh  with  his  speech : 

"  I  have,  honorable  Senators,  I  have  seen  the  Rhone  dying 
where  it  nears  its  mouth,  and  it  is  there  that  I  have  observed  it 
resemble  most  closely  our  Magdalena  when  emptying  into  the 
ocean  most.  That  river  which  has  nourished  the  splendid  for- 
ests of  centuries'  growth,  is  now  in  its  death  throes  on  a  miser- 
able bed  of  bitter  marshes,  of  sterile  and  heated  sandy  soil. 
Only  the  tamarisk,  amidst  all  this  poverty,  that  squalor  and 
heat,  brings  forth  pallid  flowers,  so  pallid  that  they  appear  like 
a  powder  of  sea  salt  deposited  upon  its  trembling  branches. 
The  heavy  waters  of  those  dead  lagoons  show  gray  reflections, 
and  towards  sundown  the  yellow  melancholy  of  the  autumnal 
evening.  And  in  all  that  vast  scene  there  is  no  living  motion 
to  be  seen  save  the  fugitive  shadows  of  the  clouds,  nor  in  that 
immense  silence  any  sound  but  the  sea  storms  or  else  the  dull 
resonance  of  a  village  church  bell  which  there,  far  away  on  the 
horizon,  seems  to  double  itself,  booming  out  the  agony  of  the 
Rhone,  of  that  once  powerful  river  which  thus  finds  an  inglori- 
ous end  of  its  existence.  And  one  feels  there  the  peace  of 
death,  the  death  of  an  ancient  toiler,  who  once  again  restores 
to  the  elements  those  forces  which  Nature  endowed  him 
with.  .  .  ." 

In  the  midst  of  the  silence  in  which  the  hurried  breathing  of 
Benavides  alone  was  audible,  for  he  like  the  Rhone  seemed  to  be 
dying,  there  was  heard,  far  away,  the  whistling  of  a  train. 
"Ah!  Torralba!  .  .  ."  "At  last!" 

Such  exclamations  ran  along  the  benches  and  seats.  A  push- 
ing and  shoving  could  be  noticed  among  the  spectators.  All 
craned  their  necks  to  see  better.  Everybody  looked  at  his  neigh- 
bor. The  shadows  were  deepening,  and  all  fell  to  whispering 
their  surmises,  their  impressions,  interrogating  each  other. 

Some  were  laughing,  others  were  breathing  hard,  and  the 
whole  hall  finally  resounded  with  the  roar  of  the  entire  multi- 
tude. Quite  a  number  shrieked  with  anger.  It  was  like  a 
tempest. 

"  We  want  a  vote !  "  Landaburo  shouted  over  all  the  noise, 
in  a  fearful  rage,  from  the  lobby.  "  No  more  insipid  literature ! 
Get  to  a  vote!  " 

"  No  more  chaff!     To  the  harvest!  "  some  others  vociferated. 


274  PAX 

"  Straw  and  corn,"  said  Roberto,  making  a  pun,  and  glancing 
at  the  lobby,  "  straw  and  grain,  there  is  of  both  for  the  jockey- 
generals  who  constantly  interrupt  me." 

"  Vote!  "  bawled  the  hundreds  of  rough  fellows  whom  Socar- 
raz  had  brought  with  him.  "Vote!"  And  with  their  feet 
they  once  more  set  up  a  tremendous  drumming  on  the  floor  and 
tables. 

"  I  now  intend  to  show,  leaving  other  considerations,  the  in- 
fluence this  matter  has  on  commerce,"  said  Roberto,  trying  to 
dominate  his  fatigue,  which,  nevertheless,  was  gaining  on  him. 
"  And  I  meet  there  with  a  coincidence  which  in  itself  might 
seem  puerile  but  which  in  my  opinion  is  of  the  greatest  impor- 
tance," he  went  on.  "I  am  now  going  to  mention  a  name  which 
is  linked  to  the  future  of  Colombia,  to  the  prosperity  of  her  in- 
dustry, and  also  attached  to  the  life  of  the  Rhone,  and  to  the 
industries  which  it  unfolds  and  nourishes.  Let  it  not  be  said 
that  I  go  outside  the  question  which  at  present  is  under  discus- 
sion. I  am  swayed  solely  by  the  wish  to  enlighten  the  Senate 
on  this  matter  from  every  possible  side,  and  to  have  the  Senate 
convinced  that  even  slight  coincidences  and  almost  superfluities 
serve  to  point  out  that  Providence  herself  would  lift  up  the  torch 
of  enlightenment  in  order  to  influence  the  mind  of  the  Senate. 
One  moment  more  of  attention  only,  just  a  few  additional 
words,  and  I  shall  conclude  my  speech.  From  its  birth  to  its 
mouth  of  the  Rhone  produces  in  its  course  the  most  powerful 
element  of  motive  force  existing  in  France.  The  industry  of 
Geneva  takes  from  it  in  passing  600  horsepower,  and  it  is 
scarcely  noticed  by  the  river  that  it  has  been  bled  to  that  ex- 
tent. A  short  distance  farther  it  moves  8000  turbines  in 
Bellegarde.  In  Bellegarde,  gentlemen!  .  .  .  I  cannot  help  call- 
ing this  fact  to  your  mind.  This  name  is  united  to  the  Mag- 
dalena,  it  is  linked  with  the  prosperity  of  our  country,  with 
that  of  the  city  whose  name  I  just  had  occasion  to  recall; 
with  the  Rhone,  with  the  future,  the  wealth  of  a  happy  nation. 
And  Bellegarde,  that  town  which  is  lit  up  by  electric  light 
through  the  energy  of  the  waves,  is  the  type  of  the  city  of 
the  future.  The  day  is  not  far  when  the  other  cities  rising 
along  the  shores  of  the  Rhone  will  imitate  that  example,  as 
also  our  Magdalena  will  be  the  master  and  at  its  own  time 
the  servant  of  that  whole  district,  the  dispenser  of  the  energy, 


OBSTRUCTION  275 

of  the  life  movement,  in  those  regions  which  it  will  dominate. 
And  soon  will  come  the  hour  when  the  workers,  the  humble  peo- 
ple, aided  by  that  colossal  force,  electricity,  will  say  to  those 
beneficent  rivers  the  words  which  the  Egyptian  toiled  addresses 
to  Father  Nile:  '  Thou  driest  the  tears  of  our  eyes.'  ' 

A  great  tumult  in  the  passages  was  heard  just  then,  a  mur- 
mur in  the  lobby,  which  drowned  Roberto's  voice. 

"  Torralba.  .  .  .  General  Tor-ralba.  ...  He  is  already  com- 
ing! " 

The  noise  went  on  increasing,  until  the  mass  of  people 
standing  under  the  arches  at  the  entrance  parted  in  two  wings, 
and  in  the  intervening  free  space,  leaning  on  a  strong  staff,  with 
carriage  erect,  appeared  the  ancient  military  chief  of  the  Grana- 
dine  Confederation.  In  the  dusk  of  early  evening  were  only 
distinguishable  a  pale  face,  a  white  beard  that  flowed  over  his 
chest.  All,  even  his  enemies,  rose  to  their  feet  out  of  respect, 
while  the  old  man,  thudding  the  carpet  with  his  staff,  found 
his  way  towards  a  vacant  seat.  The  secretary,  likewise  stand- 
ing, formally  announced  the  presence  of  General  Torralba. 
Roberto  had  concluded  his  speech,  satisfied  with  his  success. 
Torralba  came  to  occupy  the  place  of  Karlonoff,  and  Sanchez, 
although  boiling  with  rage,  rose  at  the  old  warrior's  approach, 
seeing  that  now,  with  Karlonoff  going  out  and  Torralba  com- 
ing in,  there  was  a  majority  for  General  Ronderos.  All  now 
stood  up.  The  oath  was  administered  to  Torralba,  and  the 
voting  was  proceeded  with. 

The  law  which  the  enemies  of  Ronderos  had  framed  to  ruin 
him,  became  inoperative  by  reason  of  an  unexpected  incident. 
The  group  of  the  Integros  and  the  partisans  of  Landaburo  let 
loose  on  their  adversaries  in  loud  abuse,  and  in  the  corridors, 
on  the  stairs,  wherever  the  crowd  was  pouring,  like  a  stream 
of  burning  and  destructive  lava,  shouts  were  heard  of  voices 
made  hoarse  by  fervent  hate: 

"  Death  to  Torralba!  .      .  Death  to  General  Ronderos  1  " 


276  PAX 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A   TELEGRAM   IN   CHIFFRE 

THE  sky  rockets  went  on  crackling  and  bursting;  and 
they  were  answered  by  others,  going  up  at  divers  points  of  the 
city.  It  was  the  signal  agreed  upon,  the  sinister  campaign 
spreading  from  suburb  to  suburb,  calling  the  people  to  meet- 
ings, to  risings,  to  insurrection.  The  last  sunbeams  of  the 
late  afternoon  illuminated  the  great  square,  shed  their  dying 
light  upon  the  hostile  multitude  that  were  gathering  in  crowds, 
demonstrating  and  humming  like  a  beehive. 

On  the  appearance  of  Ronderos  and  Torralba  on  the  porch 
of  the  Capitol,  a  tempest  of  whistles,  of  threatening  roars  burst 
forth. 

"  Death  to  the  thieves !  " 

"  Down  with  Ronderos!  " 

And  this  name  of  Ronderos  which  the  agitators  had  taught 
the  populace  to  abhor,  by  the  magical  effects  of  this  hatred,  let 
loose  veritable  hurricanes  of  abuse,  of  wrath,  of  inexplicable 
rage,  of  savage  furor. 

Socarraz  lurched  forward,  and  raised  his  hand  against  the 
object  of  all  that  outburst  of  feeling.  Chispas,  however,  had 
closely  followed  the  aggressor,  and  gave  him  such  a  terrific  blow 
with  his  fist  as  to  stretch  out  the  other  at  full  length  on  the 
pavement. 

Howling,  menaces,  insults. 

Vast  throngs  of  people,  a  mob  that  like  waves  in  a  storm 
threaten  to  engulf  their  victims.  The  comrades  of  Socarraz, 
quite  frantic,  once  more  launch  themselves  upon  their  adver- 
saries. But  they  are  promptly  checked.  For  Chispas,  Ale- 
jandro, Roberto,  now  surround  the  two  old  gentlemen,  make 
a  powerful  wall  out  of  their  bodies  for  their  protection,  and 
maintain  themselves  firmly  against  the  hosts  of  their  enemies, 
resolved  to  be  killed  or  to  kill  rather  than  give  way,  their 
arms  stiffened  for  the  fight,  finger  on  the  trigger  of  their  re- 
volvers. 

The  multitude  is  surprised  and  dominated  for  an  instant, 


A  TELEGRAM  IN  CHIFFRE  277 

and  opens  a  way,  and  they  thus  advance  between  menacing 
fists,  amidst  congested  faces,  and  the  mouths  of  all  these  half 
demented  partisans  are  wide  open,  showing  a  snarl,  teeth  ready 
to  crunch,  full  of  froth,  and  vomiting  curses,  maledictions, 
blasphemies,  emitting  grim  laughter,  which  in  their  paroxysm  of 
ire  seem  to  turn  raucous,  bestial. 

And  the  group  of  valorous  champions  goes  on  steadily  ad- 
vancing, with  a  haughty  and  disdainful  mien,  with  disparage- 
ment of  danger  in  eyes,  in  clenched  hands,  in  their  whole  atti- 
tude. 

Thus  they  arrive  at  the  Hotel  Bicontinental,  and  there 
Ronderos  at  once  flies  to  the  telephone. 

Borrero  is  taking  Landaburo  and  Socarraz  to  the  barracks 
of  his  men,  he  is  told,  and  with  his  Granaderos  is  sweeping 
free  the  square. 

But  the  populace  nevertheless  was  multiplying  all  the  time. 
The  revolutionary  wave  was  rising  and  ever  rising.  Masses 
of  people  in  working  blouse  or  frock  coat,  of  those  who  were 
initiated  into  the  real  purpose  of  the  movement,  and  of  those 
who  were  merely  curious,  men  lacking  work,  crowds  of  the 
criminally  inclined  or  socially  ostracised,  or  lost,  all,  all,  in 
this  jumble  emptied  from  the  four  corners  of  the  immense 
square  into  the  inextricable  hurly-burly,  were  swallowed  up  in 
it.  And  all,  too,  swept  on  and  on,  choked  and  pushed  each 
other,  seized  by  the  political  fever,  infected  by  the  microbe  of 
revolution. 

And  all  the  while  the  innumerable  sky  rockets,  flashing 
like  lightning,  crossing  each  other  in  midair,  filling  it  with 
hissing  and  spluttering  noises,  with  detonations  and  explosions, 
acting  as  messengers  of  the  insurrection.  They  went  up  like 
serpents  of  fire,  cutting  the  obscurity  overhead,  showering  clots 
of  blood-colored  light  upon  the  crowds  below,  and  next  there 
came  a  rain  of  sparks  pouring  down  which  seemed  to  inflame 
still  further  the  envy  of  the  envious,  the  heat  of  hatred,  the 
seed  that  had  been  scattered  for  months  and  months  into  the 
soul  of  their  readers  by  La  Revaluation  and  La  Integridad. 

Black  clouds  of  smoke  rising  in  the  sky  were  partially  illum- 
inated by  fugitive  flames  kindled  in  the  streets,  by  incendiary 
fires,  and  the  whole  atmosphere  became  impregnated  with  the 
odor  of  powder.  From  all  these  elements  there  was  develop- 


278  PAX 

ing  the  frightful  medium  whence  grow  great  crimes,  a  scent 
which  enwraps,  penetrates  and  searches  out,  an  envenomed 
fluid  which  creeps  into  the  blood,  runs  at  rapid  pace  through 
the  veins,  beats  in  the  heart  and  deadens  the  brain,  brutalizes 
and  renders  it  furious. 

The  apostleship  of  the  agitators  had  spread  with  a  fearful 
fecundity.  They  had  infected  the  lower  strata  of  society  both 
with  their  poisonous  doctrines  and  their  wickedness,  had  brought 
to  the  surface  their  crop  of  rascality.  Having  taught  the 
populace  that  they  had  been  outraged  and  that  they  would  en- 
joy abundance  and  leisure  just  as  soon  as  they  would  make  an 
end  of  Ronderos  and  Bellegarde,  Alejandro  and  Roberto,  who, 
they  claimed,  had  by  shameful  tricks  and  dishonesty  enriched 
themselves  to  the  tune  of  millions  upon  millions,  and  this  at 
the  expense  of  public  misery,  devouring  the  very  bread  of  the 
toilers,  they  now  were  acting  in  a  spell  that  possessed  them. 
Silently  but  tenaciously  they  had  roused  the  brutal  instincts, 
the  savage  passions  that  sleep  in  the  soul  of  the  people,  and 
docile  and  easily  yielding  to  temptation,  swept  along  by  the 
arguments  of  these  same  agitators,  possessed  with  a  rabid  and 
dumb  hatred,  delirious,  in  a  frenzy,  it  now  launched  itself  into 
insane  passion,  bellowing  with  rage,  cursing  its  supposed 
despoilers,  in  the  throes  of  epileptic  convulsions,  smelling  the 
odor  of  blood,  feeling  the  impulse  to  indulge  in  senseless  noise 
and  riot,  the  magical  call  to  assassination  and  deeds  of  rapine, 
the  voluptuous  satisfaction  of  destruction,  the  desire  for  demoli- 
tion, the  pleasure  of  clamorous  demonstrations. 

Landaburo,  standing  upon  a  table,  was  haranguing  the 
multitude  in  his  trumpet  voice: 

"  These  dark  and  secret  institutions  which  we  for  twenty 
years  past  have  been  fighting  with  patriotic  fervor,  are  now 
beginning  to  exercise  their  noxious  influence  in  society,  and 
their  fatal  result  is  the  immolation  of  the  sons  of  the  people,  of 
the  humble  and  honest  workmen." 

And  with  a  tragic  gesture  he  pointed  to  Socarraz,  scarcely 
recovered  from  the  knockout  so  lately  administered,  and  who 
still  was  lying  half  forgotten  on  the  ground. 

"  In  these  present  hours  the  blood-soaked  history  of  liberty 
is  repeating  itself,"  went  on  Landaburo,  "  the  history  of 
martyrdom  and  of  the  extermination  of  democracy  and  we  who 


A  TELEGRAM  IN  CHIFFRE  279 

have  been  the  sufferers  for  many  years  are  now  dealing  out 
vigorous  blows  which  will  induce  the  people  to  choose  the  road 
of  Revaluation.  For  this  purpose,  too,  I  have  all  along  con- 
secrated my  pen  to  the  popular  weal;  for  this  I  send  forth 
my  words  of  fire,  repeating  in  your  ears  the  conviction  that 
nobody  has  the  right  to  the  superfluous  while  anybody  else 
may  suffer  for  the  want  of  the  indispensable,  and  that  the 
history  of  the  nobles  is  the  martyrdom  of  the  poor  and  needy. 
.  .  .  The  people  to-day  want  justice  done.  Public  opinion, 
the  queen  of  the  social  world,  the  vox  populi  heard  from  the 
days  of  the  prophet  Samuel  to  this  day,  suffices  in  lieu  of 
mere  physical  lynching.  But  why?  Because  public  opinion 
is  the  expression  of  the  sovereign  people.  And  when  this 
sovereign  wants  and  commands  something,  this  something,  even 
if  it  be  the  death  of  Socrates  or  the  sacrilegious  crucifixion  of 
the  great  reformer  of  Judea,  must  be  accomplished." 

Here  Landaburo  was  rewarded  by  frantic  applause.  He 
wiped  his  perspiring  brow,  smiled  and  then  continued: 

"  There  are  members  of  the  cabinet  who  are  like  jackals,  who 
live  by  devouring  the  corpse  of  this  agonizing  Republic.  Yes, 
Ronderos  and  his  friends  are  vultures  who  stretch  their  bare 
necks  out  and  plunge  their  insatiable  bill  of  steel  into  the 
empty  stomach  of  the  country  and  gorge  themselves  by  eating 
up  the  entrails  and  the  brain. 

"  But  this  government  has  been  notified  that  public  opin- 
ion is  aroused,  and  it  is  in  vain  that,  in  order  to  escape  its 
fall,  it  now  offers  us  leagues." 

He  took  a  moment's  respite,  and  then,  raising  his  voice  until 
it  acquired  a  more  penetrating  character,  so  that  it  echoed  from 
the  galleries  as  far  as  the  Cathedral,  he  exclaimed: 

"  Compatriots,  leagues  serve  only  the  purpose  of  mending 
torn  stockings." 

Borrero  approached  the  spot  where  Landaburo  was  holding 
forth,  and  said  to  him: 

"  Doctor  Landaburo,  you  are  my  prisoner." 

And  the  other,  glad  to  see  himself  the  object  of  a  measure 
which  would  surely  cause  his  name  to  resound  throughout  the 
whole  Republic,  and  give  him  new  claims  on  the  consideration 
of  his  party,  lending  him  the  halo  of  the  martyr,  allowed  him- 
self to  be  taken  without  a  murmur,  carrying  his  head  high 


280  PAX 

between  the  bayonets  of  a  file  of  soldiers  who  were  taking  him 
to  their  barracks. 

"To  the  government  palace!"  a  number  of  voices  began 
to  shout  now,  and  the  multitude  obediently  rushed  off  in  that 
direction. 

Gonzalez  Mogollon,  who  was  going  from  group  to  group, 
counseling  moderation  and  calm,  succeeded  in  making  his  voice 
heard  above  the  clamor  of  the  cheering  and  the  denunciations. 

"  I  am  going  to  talk  to  the  President,"  he  said.  "  Just  a 
moment.  Wait  for  me  here,  all  of  you.  I  am  going  to  ar- 
range this." 

A  hush  fell  on  the  blatant  crowd.  There  was  a  time  spent 
in  nervously  awaiting  the  result,  and  at  the  end  of  it  one  of 
the  balconies  of  the  palace  was  opened,  and  there  could  be 
heard  anew  the  humming  of  the  bumble-bee: 

"Friends!  The  President  of  the  Republic  is  at  this  mo- 
ment conferring  with  the  president  of  the  Senate.  Every- 
thing is  being  arranged." 

"  Long  life  to  the  President !  .  .  .  Long  life  to  Sanchez 
Mendez!  Death  to  Ronderos!  "  shouted  the  multiude. 

After  the  calm,  the  populace  returned  to  the  task  of  amusing 
itself;  the  sound  of  its  own  noise  was  intoxicating  it,  was 
pushing  it  on  to  excesses,  to  destruction,  and  one  group  of 
these  demonstrants  approached  the  gates  of  the  government 
palace  with  hostile  intent,  but  Borrero,  at  the  head  of  the  guards, 
ordered  his  men  to  use  their  bayonets,  and  actually  proceeded 
to  clear  the  way.  His  attack  on  the  crowd  resulted  in  a 
number  of  persons  being  wounded,  and  there  was  much  noise 
and  disorder.  The  pavement  of  the  back  street  was  reddened 
with  blood,  and  for  a  second  time  the  huge  bald  head  of 
Gonzalez  Mogollon  became  visible  on  one  of  the  balconies  of 
the  palace. 

"  Friends!  Comrades!  "  he  called  down,  "  I  can  settle  every- 
thing satisfactorily.  Doctor  Alcon  has  just  been  named  minister 
of  finances,  charged  also  with  the  interim  conduct  of  the  war 
department." 

Sanchez  Mendez,  Alcon,  Karlonoff,  one  after  the  other,  ap- 
peared on  the  balconies,  were  acclaimed  with  great  energy, 
greeted  as  victors,  and  then  the  multitude  dispersed  and  went 


A  TELEGRAM  IN  CHIFFRE  281 

on  their  way  to  the  suburbs,  where  they  wetted  their  patriotism 
with  numerous  libations.  Sanchez  Mendez  took  his  way  to 
the  apartments  of  the  President  of  the  Republic. 

"As  I  had  before  declared  to  your  Excellency,"  he  said, 

"  Ronderos  is  the  sole  obstacle  in  the  way  of  a  lasting  peace. 

His  leaving  the  cabinet  would  bring  about  the  most  perfect 

calm.     The  unfortunate  personage,   merely  to  render  himself 

,    indispensable,  has  kept  your  Excellency  and  the  country  in  a  \ 

•    perpetual  state  of  alarm.     But  there  is  no  cause  for  fear,  no 

reason  for  alarm.     With  a  couple  of  hundred  soldiers,"  he  con- 

i  eluded,  launching  above  his  eyeglasses  a  smiling  glance,  "  with 

some  two  hundred  brave  soldiers  the  government  is  perfectly  able 

to  maintain  the  public  peace  and  order." 

Thus  Pedro  Alcantara  Ronderos  fell  from  power  and  was 
forced  to  retire  to  private  life. 

On  the  day  following,  leaving  time  to  communicate  to  Ron- 
deros his  nomination  to  the  post  of  ambassador  in  Vienna  and 
Stockholm  (not  accepted  by  him),  Alcon  took  possession  of  the 
same  department  whence  he  had  been  recently  so  ignominiously 
ejected  for  his  black  treason.  At  last!  .  .  .  Here  he  was,  in 
this  handsome  room,  where  everything  seemed  still  to  resound 
with  the  manly  accents  of  Ronderos'  voice.  Now  it  was  no 
longer  he,  Alcon,  who  would  have  to  wait  humbly  on  the 
yellow  sofa  watching  the  minister  until  he  might  raise  his 
head  and  stretch  out  his  hand  for  a  bundle  of  letters  or  papers. 
Now  he  himself,  modest  Alcon,  could  seat  himself,  if  he  felt 
disposed,  in  that  wide  and  comfortable  armchair  upholstered 
in  Utrecht  velvet,  there,  before  the  big  table,  between  the  elec- 
tric button  which  made  employees  appear  like  a  flash,  panting 
with  eagerness,  and  the  inkstand,  which  in  being  used  by  his 
powerful  hand  could  with  a  single  stroke  of  the  pen  render 
happy  or  unhappy  so  many  poor  dependents  on  his  favor.  At 
last  he  had  "arrived!  "  Voluptuously  he  stretched  his  limbs 
in  that  same  huge  chair,  sighed  as  though  he  had  just  climbed 
to  the  top  of  a  steep  mountain,  then  got  up  again,  and  with 
the  stride  of  a  conqueror  began  to  cross  and  recross  in  every 
direction  this  spacious  office,  as  though  the  sound  of  his  foot- 
fall ought  to  be  heard  within  the  whole  circumference  of  the 
Republic,  He  wanted  to  have  some  palpable  token  of  his  new 


282  PAX 

dignity,  perform  some  act  of  immediate  authority.  He  touched 
the  button  and  instantly  there  appeared  on  the  threshold  Don 
Cosme  Dramas. 

"  Tell  them,"  he  issued  his  order  in  a  tone  of  voice  that  Don 
Cosme  had  never  heard  before,  "  that  I  shall  not  be  in  for 
anybody  just  now,  ...  for  nobody,  you  understand!  " 

And  with  a  haughty,  slow,  and  unutterably  dignified  motion 
he  pointed  Don  Cosme  to  the  door. 

Yes,  he  was  now  the  head  of  this  great  department.  He  had 
just  read  it  in  those  timid  eyes,  in  the  bow  which  just  now- 
had  bent  the  spinal  column  of  Don  Cosme  Oramas.  Yes,  he 
was  now  minister,  and  in  the  future,  bankers,  proud  owners  of 
haciendas,  people  of  consequence,  all  the  cream  of  society, 
would  have  to  wait  his  convenience  in  the  passages  outside, 
only  too  glad  if  he  should  permit  them  to  come  here,  if  he 
should  let  them  sit  down  over  there,  in  that  yellow  sofa  in 
the  corner,  greatly  honored  if  he  with  a  slight  gesture,  without 
taking  first  the  trouble  to  write,  should  allow  them  to  come 
within  his  presence;  not  too  close,  no,  but  just  in  that  heavy 
big  Russia  leather  chair,  which  for  over  a  year  nobody  who 
was  not  at  least  a  count  had  occupied,  And  with  ministerial 
unction,  so  hard  to  acquire,  with  the  heightened  feeling  of  his 
new  position,  he  could  already  see  in  his  mind's  eye  the  smiling 
and  obsequious  look  of  those  come  to  solicit  favors,  while  he, 
with  a  vague  gaze,  as  though  lost  in  the  abyss  of  his  own 
thoughts,  listened  to  their  timid,  stammering  phrases: 

"  Mr.  Minister  .  .  .  kindly  excuse  me  .  ,  .  Senor  Doctor, 
will  your  honor  please  permit  me  to  ...  Sefior  Don  Melchor, 
may  I  tell  you  that  .  .  .  Senor  Minister,  I  am  taking  the 
liberty  to  .  .  ." 

And  he,  pen  in  hand  raised  ready  for  use,  without  turning 
his  head,  his  gaze  in  the  distance,  would  answer  with  a  smile 
quite  affably  disdainful: 

"  All  right  ...  we  shall  not  delay  the  matter  ...  we  shall 
consult  on  it.  ...  Impossible.  .  .  .  This  does  not  concern  my 
department.  .  .  .  Please  come  back  some  other  day.  ...  I  am 
very  sorry.  ..." 

Ah!  and  this  Canalization  contract  which  he  had  only  the 
i   night  before  fought  in  the  Senate, —  he  would  now  be  able  by  a    ' 
\  wise  combination  of  ministerial  resolutions  to  put  the  finishing 


A  TELEGRAM  IN  CHIFFRE  283 

strokes  to  it,   enwrapping   the   concessionaires   in    a   veritable 
spider's  web.     And  by  throwing  to  the  dust  heap  this  very  con- 
tract, how  much  his  own  frame  as  a  man  of  inflexible  character, 
of  unassailable  rectitude,  would  grow !     Ah,  what  supreme  bliss, 
to  seize  upon  the  deposit  of  a  million  francs,  to  break  Roberto, 
\  to  ruin  and  humiliate  him,  this  obstructionist  dandy,  who  had 
\been  in  his  way  on  the  path  to  triumph  ...  an  obstruction- 
ist in  the  Senate,  an  obstructionist  in  his  own  wooing  of  the 
Saughter  of  Montellano.  ..."  No,  now  Montellano  will  force 
er  to  marry  me.  .  .  .  I'll  have  him  here,  trembling,  under  my 
/feet,  depending  on  a  stroke  of  my  pen." 


, 


Agitated,  fatigued  by  this  accumulation  of  thoughts,  pursued 


by  the  phantoms  of  his  own  ambition,  he  went  to  the  window 
and  cast  a  compassionate  glance  down  on  the  square  below,  and 
there,  way  down,  he  saw  men  scarcely  larger  than  ants,  excitedly 
running  about,  way  below  on  the  pavement,  indulging  in 
pitiable  anxieties,  and  he  allowed  his  glance  to  roam  the  vast 
horizon.  He  felt  in  himself  an  irrevocable  mission  to  com- 
mand, to  lead  and  shepherd  men,  vaguely  longing  for  some- 
thing more  and  greater,  thinking  that  many  heads  of  states  had 
started  on  their  road  upwards  from  much  farther  down.  To 
his  memory  came  the  vision  of  that  row  of  .portraits  in  the  huge 
antechamber  of  the  Senate,  those  bosoms  crossed  by  the  broad 
tricolored  ribbons.  He  admired  himself  in  his  dress  coat. 
How  well  he  would  look  with  that  striped  silk  ribbon  across 
$ie  chest!  And  lost  in  his  dream  floating  on  the  high  sea  of 
ambition,  he  saw  himself  already  installed  in  the  palace  of  San 
Carlos  beneath  the  baldachin  of  yellow  silk,  with  a  malicious 
smile  such  as  he  had  noticed  on  those  old  portraits,  receiving 
the  representatives  of  foreign  sovereigns  who  greeted  him  as 
their  "  great  and  good  friend."  ..."  Most  excellent  Sefior." 
..."  Permit  me  in  the  name  of  his  most  wise  Majesty  to 
salute  the  Government  and  people  of  this  Nation,  and  more 
especially  its  worthy  President,  the  most  excellent  Seiior  Don 
Melchor  Alcon,  known  beyond  the  seas."  ..."  President 
Melchor  Alcon!"  "The  Alcon  Administration."  .  .  .  How 
well  that  sounded! 

With  a  vibrant  step  he  resumed  his  pacing  up  and  down, 
but  suddenly  he  felt  a  struggle  for  the  electric  button  at  his 
door,  and  from  outside  there  came  the  sound  of  formidable 


284  PAX 

blows,  of  imperative  voices.  Alcon  shuddered  as  having  al- 
most been  caught  in  flagrante,  then  rushed  to  the  door,  and 
opened  it  with  a  ferocious  aspect.  And  then  there  presented 
himself,  filling  the  whole  entrance,  Sanchez  Mendez. 

"Hello!  Comrade!  "  he  shouted,  stepping  into  the  office  as 
though  it  were  his  own.  "  I  have  vanquished  every  one  of 
your  sentinels.  I  have  come  to  give  you  a  hug  of  welcome  and 
felicitation!  " 

Alcon  remained  passive,  his  arms  hanging  loose  down  the 
length  of  his  body.  It  was  necessary  that  each  and  every  one 
should  occupy  his  respective  place.  He  at  once  put  in  prac- 
tice what  he  had  just  been  doing  in  imagination.  He  stretched 
himself  luxuriously  in  his  huge  armchair,  put  on  the  look 
worn  by  those  ancient  portraits,  and  with  a  slight  gesture  he 
indicated  to  Sanchez  Mendez  a  position,  over  there,  not  too 
close  to  himself,  in  the  black  Russia  leather  armchair. 

"  See  here,  Alcon !  "  said  Sanchez,  and  the  chair  creaked  as 
he  took  his  seat.  "  See  here,  Doctor  Alcon,"  he  continued 
with  a  certain  air  of  embarrassment  and  pique,  "  I  believe  it 
to  be  my  duty  to  remind  you  of  our  principles,  those  of  the 
band  of  Integros,  the  confession  of  faith  of  our  circle,  for 
the  moment  has  come  to  put  the  concessions,  the  compromises 
and  the  prospects  into  practice,  and  .  .  ." 

But  he  halted.  Alcon,  with  a  vacant  gaze  into  space,  seemed 
not  to  hear  him  at  all.  And,  at  last,  with  a  smile  full  of 
amiable  disdain,  he  made  reply: 

"  We  shall  consult  about  this.  ...  It  does  not  concern  my 
department.  ...  I  am  very  sorry.  ..." 

The  other,  disconcerted  for  an  instant,  insisted: 

"  It  is  necessary,  Melchor.  .  .  .  Senor  Minister,  it  is  in- 
dispensable to  make  radical  changes  in  the  financial  depart- 
ment, according  to  what  we  have  promised  the  country  in  La 
Integridad,  your  honor  and  I  myself.  And  for  this  nothing 
is  more  natural  than  to  make  new  appointments,  to  gather  to- 
gether our  friends,  those  who  have  sacrificed  themselves." 

But  Alcon,  always  with  that  empty  look,  as  though  lost  in 
the  abyss  of  his  own  thoughts,  merely  murmured: 

"  Later.  .  .  .  We  shall  not  fail  to  consider  this  promptly.  .  .  ." 

Sanchez  Mendez,  now  angry,  and  seeing  that  his  disciple  was 
trying  to  emancipate  himself,  attempted  his  last  effort.  He  un- 


A  TELEGRAM  IN  CHIFFRE  285 

buttoned  his  walking  coat,  drew  from  it  some  papers,  a  whole 
immense  plan  of  financial  changes,  and  started  to  read.  .  .  . 

"  Point  I  (a).     Conversion  of  the  Debt." 

But  Alcon  stopped  him,  extended  one  rigid  hand  towards 
the  manuscript,  and  with  his  eyes  said: 

"  Please  pass  this  to  me  .  .  ." 

He  then  took  the  essay,  glanced  it  over  in  silence,  and  finally 
folded  it  up,  making  the  folds  as  tight  as  though  he  never 
meant  to  unfold  the  document  again,  and  then  stamping  it  with 
a  green  glass  stamp. 

"  It  is  well,"  he  then  said  curtly.  "  I  shall  pass  it  on  to 
the  section  chief  .  .  .  he'll  study  it  at  his  own  time  ...  we 
are  not  going  to  delay  the  matter." 

Sanchez  Mendez  emitted  a  tremendous  snort,  unbuttoned  his 
coat  once  more,  quite  solemnly,  rose  with  indignation,  but  sub- 
sequently collected  himself,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Dear  Alcon,"  he  then  said  in  a  subdued  voice,  "  Sefior 
Minister,  I  am  taking  my  leave.  ...  I  have  some  experience, 
and  I  have  pledged  this  office.  Do  not  forget  that  you  have  in 
me  an  adviser  .  .  .  even  more,  a  friend." 

Alcon  meanwhile  was  seeing  him  to  the  door,  until  the  tall 
and  robust  person  of  Sanchez  Mendez,  who  made  everything 
once  more  shake  and  tremble  under  his  heavy  tread,  had  disap- 
peared in  the  adjoining  office. 

Alcon  called  out.     Don  Cosme  once  more  appeared. 

"  I  wish  to  repeat  to  you  that  there  will  be  no  more  audi- 
ences," said  Alcon,  altogether  in  his  best  ministerial  accent. 
Don  Cosme  went  off  to  transmit  this  order,  and  passing  from 
office  to  office,  from  desk  to  desk,  repeated  like  an  echo: 

"  There  will  be  no  audience!     Remember,  no  audiences." 

And  in  all  the  offices,  most  of  them  already  empty,  the 
employees  now  gave  themselves  up  to  their  favorite  occupa- 
tions. 

Don  Cosme  threw  an  alarmed  glance  at  the  clock  on  the  wall, 
laid  his  pen  aside,  and  rubbing  his  hands,  said : 

"Well,  well,  .  .  .  it's  half  past  two  ...  the  hour  for  my 
milk." 

He  went  to  a  little  stand,  and  returned.  He  majestically 
placed  the  cup  upon  his  desk,  upon  a  piece  of  cut  paper,  put 
the  points  of  his  mustache  aside,  spread  the  ends  of  his  napkin 


286  PAX 

out  with  care,  and  then  steeped  his  spongy  biscuit  in  the 
milk.  At  the  neighboring  tables  there  was  one  employee  who 
was  reading  La  Revaluation,  and  another  was  lazily  trimming 
his  nails  with  a  pen  knife. 

But  Montellano  now  invaded  the  antechambers,  and  at  the 
risk  of  a  severe  reprimand,  Don  Cosme,  obsequious  and  hum- 
ble, leaving  his  milk  and  biscuits  for  a  moment,  accompanied 
the  millionaire  to  the  office,  somewhat  in  fear  that  the  non- 
fulfilment  of  those  strict  orders  might  involve  him  in  trouble. 
But  he  was  an  old  fox,  and  knew  up  to  what  point  those  orders 
were  to  be  carried  out. 

Hearing  the  heavy  steps  of  Montellano,  and  the  roar  of  his 
voice,  Alcon  in  a  twinkling  had  thrown  himself  in  his  arm- 
chair, and  then  assumed  all  the  gravity  peculiar  to  him.  But 
Montellano  crossed  the  office  with  precipitation,  took  hold  of 
Alcon's  cold  hands,  shook  them  forcibly  and  familiarly,  and 
then  said: 

"  Now  at  last  we  have  a  real  minister  of  finance!  " 

Alcon  with  a  slight  movement  of  his  head  assigned  the 
Russia  leather  armchair  to  him. 

Montellano  then  went  on  pointing  out  the  chief  purpose  of 
his  visit,  but  Karlonoff  came  in  at  this  juncture,  and  putting  a 
roll  of  documents  on  the  table,  remarked : 

"  Here  you  have  the  complete  plans  of  the  attack." 

Alcon  did  not  at  once  understand,  and  was  blinking  with 
his  small  short-sighted  eyes. 

"  The  plan  of  attack  ...  for  ..  ."  he  muttered. 

Karlonoff  held  back.  He  did  not  know  whether  he  might 
talk  frankly  before  him. 

"  Oh,  yes,  the  one  about  the  Canalization,"  burst  out  Al- 
con. 

"  Exactly !  I  have  studied  the  point  according  to  my  own 
method,  which  nothing  can  resist,  and  with  that  series  of 
resolutions  we  shall  smash  the  whole  contract,  we  shall  over- 
whelm them,  drive  them  to  desperation,  oblige  them  to  dis- 
gorge the  deposit.  .  .  .  The  defeat  of  yesterday  is  a  great  vic- 
tory. We  shall  lose  in  the  legislature  and  regain  all  in  the 
executive  branch.  Ah,  ah,  nothing,  there  is  nothing  like  hav- 
ing the  executive  on  your  side." 

"  Very  well,"  interrupted  Alcon,  "  hand  that  bunch  of  docu- 


A  TELEGRAM  IN  CHIFFRE  287 

ments  to  the  section  chief.  You  know  in  order  to  let  them 
see  clear  in  the  matter.  .  .  .  When  Congress  adjourns,  we 
shall  begin  our  own  side  of  it.  The  President  has  promised 
me  that  there  will  be  no  prorogation." 

"  That  will  by  no  means  do,"  exclaimed  Montellano,  as  soon 
as  Karlonoff  had  disappeared.  "  Permit  me  to  speak  with 
frankness." 

Alcon  frowned,  contracted  his  eyes  and  closed  his  lips 
severely.  But  Montellano  went  on  in  his  domineering  voice: 

"  Quite  the  contrary,  you  must  do  quite  the  contrary.  You 
must  lend  your  aid  to  the  canalization  enterprise,  give  full 
publicity  to  what  has  been  done  and  to  what  remains  to  be 
done;  you  must  demonstrate  by  what  time  vessels  of  deep 
draught  may  enter  by  the  Bocas  de  Ceniza,  which  will  soon 
be  the  case  —  they  say  by  the  first  of  January;  then  the  rail- 
road from  la  Sabanilla  will  become  worthless  and  useless,  and 
then  it  will  be  my  turn,  and  I  shall  buy  it  ...  as  I  have 
some  time  ago  explained  to  you,  according  to  what  we  have 
agreed  upon.  .  .  ." 

"  But  I  cannot  carry  out  this  operation  without  fulfilling 
all  the  formalities  in  that  case  provided,  and  until  all  the 
fiscal  conditions  which  the  law  stipulates  have  been  complied 
with  to  the  last  letter,"  said  Alcon,  assuming  a  very  important 
and  dignified  air. 

"  Allowing  that,"  replied  Montellano,  "  here  is  the  railroad 
which  will  be  disposed  of  by  public  sale,  with  the  burden  of 
immense  charges,  and  whenever  you  want  it.  Let  them  make 
all  the  noise  they  want  to,  complying  with  all  the  conditions 
you  may  impose,  ...  I  assure  you  that  I  shall  offer  for  that 
road  more  than  anybody  else.  .  .  .  Don't  let  me  miss  this  .  .  . 
I  shall  pay  for  this  on  good  terms,  on  very  good  terms  .  .  ." 

"  Very  well,  Sefior  Montellano.  ...  I  am  going  to  study 
the  points  involved  .  .  .  always  unforeseen  circumstances  ex- 
cepted,  I  shall  fix  to-morrow  the  terms  for  the  sale  of  this 
property, —  public  sale,  of  course,  and  with  at  least  ninety  days 
intervals." 

"  But  let  it  be  at  least  before  the  first  of  January,  because 
after  that  date  I  shall  be  in  Ubaque.  .  .  .  There  we  shall 
await  things.  .  .  .  Aura  and  Dolores  have  commissioned 
me  .  ,  ." 


288  PAX 

He  became  silent,  because  he  recognized  in  the  corridor  out- 
side the  voice  of  Landaburo,  who  came  in  his  rough  soldier's 
manner  to  ask  a  hearing. 

Before  Landaburo  entered  Montellano  had  slipped  away,  and 
our  hero  burst  out  with : 

"  I  came  to  see  you,  friend,  to  render  you  once  again  my 
thanks  for  my  restored  liberty."  While  speaking  he  was  in- 
haling with  delight  that  peculiar  ministerial  perfume  from 
which,  alas,  he  had  been  separated  for  many  years.  "  I  am 
here,  esteemed  Doctor,  to  thank  you  for  my  freedom.  But  in 
order  that  your  work  be  complete,  I  have  another  favor  to 
beg  of  you  ...  a  little  more." 

"A  little  more?  What  is  it?"  queried  Alcon,  mistrustful. 
He  felt  himself  already  a  part  of  the  Government,  and  was  be- 
ginning to  distrust  the  revolutionary  with  whom  he  had  walked 
arm  in  arm  in  the  foyer  of  the  theater.  It  would  be  necessary 
to  hold  back  in  time,  to  forget  old  promises,  even  though  the 
Revaluation  forces  should  declare  him  a  convert  to  the  policy 
of  the  "  closed  door." 

"  Yes,  my  friend  and  Doctor,  I  want  you  to  issue  to  me 
through  the  war  department  a  passport  allowing  me  to  leave  the 
capital." 

"A  passport?  ...  In  time  of  peace?" 

Landaburo,  who  now  perceived  that  he  had  gone  too  far, 
added  instantly: 

"  I  am  thinking  of  absenting  myself  from  the  country  .  .  . 
after  surveying  it,  of  course,  and  there  is  nothing  else  on  my 
mind.  On  the  other  hand,  even  when  you  guarantee  our  rights 
ever  so  much,  the  police  spies  whom  that  inquisitor,  Ronderos, 
has  all  over,  might  embarrass  my  line  of  march.  It  is  neces- 
sary for  me  to  travel,  to  put  all  my  faculties  to  practical  use. 
I  am  stifling  here.  A  man  like  myself  requires  the  free  air  of 
the  American  pampas. 

Alcon  drew  breath.  This  would  in  no  wise  compromise 
him.  Besides,  it  would  be  a  relief  to  have  Landaburo  far 
away,  to  get  rid  of  him.  But  he  carefully  recorded  his  re- 
quest, and  then  assumed  his  studied  attitude,  became  grave 
and  solemn,  with  his  glance  far  away,  and  murmured  the 
Sybilline  phrases: 


A  TELEGRAM  IN  CHIFFRE  289 

"  We  shall  see  ...  we  shall  deliberate  the  matter." 

"  Doctor,  .  .  .  Mr.  Minister,"  interrupted  the  other  with 
great  insistence,  with  anxiety,  "  you  dare  not  deprive  me  of 
the  sacred  right  of  free  locomotion."  And  then,  approaching 
Alcon  familiarly,  while  the  latter  backed  away  from  him: 

"  This  journey  of  mine  will  be  undertaken  in  your  own.  in- 
terest; I  shall  utilize  it  making  propaganda  for  you.  .  .  .  Only] 
break    with    the   policy    of    the    closed    door,    and    you    will? 
have  the  support  of  my  comrades.     Remember  what  we  have! 
been  talking  about  formerly.  .  .  .  Let  us  give  our  ideals  new  N 
values." 

"  But,  General,  did  you  not  last  night  speak  against  the 
leagues?  " 

"  Ah,  Doctor  —  Mr.  Minister,"  said  Landaburo,  breaking 
out  in  hearty  laughter,  "  that  is  my  evil  genius,  my  little  joke 
that  now  and  then  plays  me  a  trick.  There  are  leagues -and 
leagues.  We  shall  make  a  frank  appeal  to  the  country  by 
means  of  a  convention  which  will  recognize  all  the  rights  of 
freemen.  In  a  word,  you  are  too  intelligent  to  misunderstand. 
You  might  become  anything,  with  all  and  for  all.  You  do 
not  belong  to  those  who  have  denied  us  during  the  past  decade 
everything,  water,  bread,  salt,  and  the  title  of  brothers." 

Then,  in  a  firmer  voice,  in  an  almost  threatening  manner,  he 
added : 

"Did  you  last  night  hear  the  plaints  of  the  people?  .  .  . 
The  wind  is  bearing  hither  sinister  laments,  and  also  shrieks 
of  those  who  are  being  strangled  on  the  crossroads  of  existence. 
.  .  .  Redeem  us,  become  our  man  and  you  will  be  the  natural 
leader  in  an  evolutionary  movement.  If  you  will  but  open  the 
road  for  us,  the  one  between  those  two  mountains  of  mutual 
hatreds  that  separate  the  two  camps,  as  I  have  told  Sanchez 
Mendez  so  many  times,  and  such  a  movement  would  lift  you 
to  the  very  heights  of  the  palace  of  .  .  ." 

"  Enough,  General,  .  .  .  hm,  hm!  .  .  .  I  aspire  to  nothing," 
the  new  minister  interrupted,  in  a  trembling,  timorous  voice, 
greatly  dreading  the  terrible  indiscretions  of  Landaburo.  But 
then  he  turned  around  to  take  another  look  at  his  waistcoat, 
and  tried  to  improve  on  the  phrase,  leave  a  good  impression 
on  the  mind  of  this  guerilla  chief,  and  went  on  with  his  false 


290  PAX 

smile,  while  his  bald  head  underwent  rapidly  change  after 
change,  from  the  deep  carmine  of  pride  and  excitement  to  the 
pallor  of  fright. 

"  I  long  indeed  to  repair  those  injustices,  to  open  the  path 
of  which  Sanchez  and  I  have  spoken  so  often  in  La  Integridad," 
Alcon  remarked.  But  then,  in  order  not  to  go  too  far,  and 
not  to  compromise  himself,  he  threw  back  his  body,  lifted  his 
hand,  and  touched  the  electric  button  on  the  wall.  "  I  am  go- 
ing to  give  you  your  passport." 

And  on  the  appearance  of  a  clerk,  he  said:  "  Take  this  card 
to  the  war  department.  Good-by,  General;  we  shall  see  each 
other  again  .  .  .  and  confer  ...  I  am  waiting." 

"  And  this  also,"  added  Alcon,  making  a  gesture  to  Landa- 
buro  to  delay  his  departure. 

He  sat  down,  and  wrote  quickly: 

"It  is  hereby  ordered  to  change  the  command  of  the  Grana- 
deros  and  to  examine  into  the  conduct  of  Borrero  during  the 
recent  events  ...  in  your  prison,  General,  I  mean." 

Gacharnah,  who  had  been  at  a  wedding,  away  from  the 
capital,  met  Landaburo  on  the  stairs,  the  latter  making  the 
steps  ring  with  his  satisfaction  at  the  turn  things  had  taken. 
The  fop  glanced  at  the  general  with  surprise  at  finding  him 
there,  and  hastened  his  step  toward  the  finance  department. 
There  he  questioned  the  clerk  who  was  still  absorbed  in  the 
reading  of  La  Revaluation,  wherein  Landaburo  had  described 
his  confinement  in  the  barracks  of  los  Granaderos. 

"  The  Sefior  Minister  can  be  seen  ?  "  asked  Gacharnah. 

But  the  other  went  on  reading  without  replying. 

".  .  .  From  my  dark  cell  I  could  see  through  the  window  on 
the  north  side,  the  corner  of  the  street  which  in  a  spirit  of  grim 
irony  has  been  called  Ayacucho  Street.  From  the  other 
window,  in  an  easterly  direction,  I  enjoyed  a  view  of  the  door 
of  a  tavern:  'To  the  Bridge  of  Boyaca,'  where  there  is, —  oh! 
irony  of  liberty, —  to  be  discovered  a  modest  nursery,  kept  by  a 
daughter  of  General  Santander's  cook.  ..." 

"  Does  the  Sefior  General  happen  to  be  much  occupied  ?  " 

The  clerk,  smiling  cunningly,  was  not  to  be  disturbed  in  his 
reading,  as  follows: 

"...  I  went  to  bed  at  a  quarter  to  ten,  according  to  direc- 
tions affixed  in  my  quarters.  While  I  took  off  my  coat,  I  re- 


A  TELEGRAM  IN  CHIFFRE  291 

called  the  fact  that  it  was  Saturday,  and  mentally  I  addressed 
this  malediction  to  Ronderos:  Jesuit  and  Reverend  Father 
Ronderos,  while  I  see  myself  forced  to  retire  to  bed  at  ten 
o'clock  and  something  earlier,  you  are  with  your  friends  and 
with  some  old  devout  person  at  your  Saturday  party,  relishing 
a  cup  or  two  of  chocolate,  followed  by  the  indispensable  pray- 
ers which  the  monks  command.  .  .  .  Finally,  I  lay  down  in 
the  bed,  a  French  bed  1  meter  and  80  centimeters  in  length  and 
90  centimeters  in  width.  I  rose  early,  went  to  the  mirror  and 
contemplated  my  face,  the  face  of  a  patriot,  livid  and  dis- 
heveled by  just  one  night  of  imprisonment." 

"Have  you  finished?"  insinuated  Gacharnah,  in  a  honeyed 
voice,  and  with  a  tinge  of  irony. 

But  the  other  continued  undisturbedly: 

"  Through  the  window  on  the  southern  exposure  I  saw  a 
company  of  the  Granaderos,  firing  upon  and  aiming  at  a 
figure  fastened  to  a  sign  board.  How  unfortunate,  I  exclaimed, 
that  this  mannikin  is  not  the  same  Ronderos  in  person  and 
that  one  of  these  Catholic  dunces  does  not  cut  short  his  vital 
cord." 

"  Now,  if  you  could  tell  me,"  insisted  Gacharnah,  "  whether 
General  Ronderos  will  receive  me?  " 

The  reader,  with  a  rather  disrespectful  smile,  retorted: 

"  There  is  no  general  of  any  kind  here,  nobody  of  the  name 
of  Ronderos." 

"Well,  then,  who  — which  is  the  minister?  " 

"  The  Senor  Doctor  Alcon,"  said  the  clerk  in  a  reverential 
tone,  inclining  his  head. 

Gacharnah  stared  about  him  quite  stupidly.  The  tint  of 
his  chubby  cheeks  went  from  pink  to  purple,  from  purple  to 
the  hue  of  poppy.  Then,  lightly  slapping  the  table  with  gloves 
that  were  the  shade  of  raw  meat,  he  gracefully  wheeled  on 
his  heels,  shot  down  the  broad  stairs,  crossed  the  square  and 
the  streets,  exhibiting  his  paunch  with  pride,  while  his  face 
was  full  of  content,  turning  over  in  his  imagination  schemes 
and  plans  in  which  millions  and  millions  were  filing  past,  and 
bolts  of  blue  and  red  cloth  were  racing  before  his  vision. 
He  arrived  at  the  telegraph  office,  and  causing  the  point  of  his 
pen  to  scratch  weirdly,  he  wrote: 


292  PAX 

Gacharnah  Brothers,  Birmingham. —  Giant.    Bearded.    Judaizing. 

GACHARNAH. 

CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE   RIVER 

THE  river,  narrowed  between  two  immense  rocks,  rushes 
roaring  and  in  turbulent,  foaming  masses,  spume  above  spume, 
through  its  constricted  bed,  leaps  in  a  cascade,  falls  boldly, 
and  then  spreads  out  boiling  into  a  vast  pool  of  azure  hue, 
along  the  borders  of  which  a  heap  of  withered  leaves  and 
orange  flowers  are  scattered  thickly,  the  soft  wind  having  swept 
these  from  the  orange  grove  growing  along  the  river  bank. 
Red  and  white  petals  fringe  the  stagnant  backflow  of  the  pool, 
turn  slowly  on  the  surface  of  the  tepid  water  towards  the 
cascade,  are  halted  on  the  way  in  certain  spots,  escape  the 
spouting  current,  then  whirl  into  it  again,  and  in  patches 
are  lost  between  the  large  stones.  Sometimes  some  single 
flower  is  caught  by  a  ripple,  twirls  about  aimlessly,  adorns  the 
pool  with  its  beauty  for  moments,  adheres  to  an  inviting  place 
along  the  shore,  as  though  fleeing  death,  and  at  last  meets  ship- 
wreck, leaving  behind  a  vague  regret. 

The  republic  is  enjoying  calm, —  a  calm  which  seems  to 
have  become  more  assured  since  General  Ronderos  abandoned 
his  share  in  the  Government.  The  Integros  Party,  now  ap- 
peased, is  holding  the  best  offices  in  the  war  and  finances  de- 
partments. Landaburo  is  still  traveling  in  the  interior  of 
the  country,  and  is  no  more  spoken  of  just  now  than  are  the 
partizans  of  Revaluation.  Quite  alone  La  Integridad,  which  is 
still  under  the  management  of  Sanchez  Mendez,  is  striking 
discordant  notes  amid  the  general  concert,  advocating  the  forma- 
tion of  a  new  party,  and  aiming  its  arrows  at  Alcon  since  the 
latter  has  become  a  member  of  the  cabinet.  Roberto  has  not 
returned  to  bring  the  books  of  Montellano  since  he  had  his  ac- 
cident on  Corpus  Christi  Day,  but  instead  attends  to  the  busi- 
ness of  the  great  enterprise  in  Bogota,  and  Alejandro,  once 
Congress  has  adjourned,  and  after  a  short  stay  up  the  Mag- 
dalena,  has  gone  to  Ubaque  to  pass  in  that  place  of  cool 
winds  a  period  of  complete  repose. 


THE  RIVER  293 

December  has  come  with  its  azure  skies,  with  its  cheerful  and 
luminous  days,  with  vivifying  clear  lights,  so  admirably  adapted 
to  banish  all  cares  and  burdens,  and  so  fitted  for  rejoicing  dur- 
ing the  coming  holidays. 

The  two  friends,  stretched  out  in  the  shade  of  the  planta- 
tion of  plane  trees  at  the  border  of  the  pool,  are  enjoying  the 
perfumes  with  which  the  breeze  is  laden,  slumbering  under 
the  influence  of  the  silky  friction  of  the  leaves,  and  submerge 
themselves  in  the  drowsy  peace  of  this  woodland  spot. 

"  How  nice  it  is  to  rest  here  after  those  four  months  of 
agitation  in  Congress,  and  those  tumultuous  street  scenes!  " 
exclaimed  Alejandro.  "  Only  cast  a  glance  about  you,  you 
might  continue  your  obstructionist  speech  on  the  Rhone,  or  add 
a  new  fragment  on  the  river  Ubaque." 

"  Just  so,  I  might  add  that  the  harmonious  sound  of  the 
river  drowns  the  vociferations  of  the  crazed  crowds;  that  its 
rushing  flow  destroys  the  unpleasant  memory  of  the  Landaburos 
and  Alcons;  that  in  this  solitary  place  here,  perfumed  by  that 
breeze,  refreshed  by  this  cascade,  I  feel  happy,  invincible,  for- 
getful of  all  causes  for  worry  and  care.  .  .  .  Doubtless  the 
best  part  of  memory  is  to  forget  .  .  .  especially  if  this  river 
here  helps  one  to  forget." 

"  Good,  in  this  wild  and  pleasant  nook  let  us  forget  ~lfo~f 
alone  all  politics,  but  also  all  about  the  Canalization  project, 
about  letters  of  exchange,  and  about  printed  proofs.  .  .  .  Here 
there  is  no  place  where  one  wants  to  do  ought  but  enjoy  this 
wonderful  zephyr  which  caresses  the  cheek  like  the  soft  hand 
of  a  woman,  where  the  eye  meets  only  butterflies  that  are  flowers 
in  flight,  and  flowers  that  resemble  sleeping  butterflies,  as  Dona 
Aura  would  say." 

"  How  much  Bellegarde  would  enjoy  himself  here !  Listen 
to  this  symphony  played  by  a  grand  orchestra,  to  these  low 
notes,  to  the  thunders  of  the  waterful,  the  tones  both  sweet  and 
reposeful  of  the  pool  over  there;  those  are  the  accompanying 
instruments,  and  then,  in  that  other  part  of  the  orchestra,  the 
leading  instruments:  hear  how  these  strains  are  rejoicing  over 
the  plunge  of  the  water  from  the  pool,  when  each  drop  changes 
into  a  globule  of  shining  silver;  listen  to  the  chorus  of  deep 
bassos,  of  baritones  and  charming  sopranos  which  all  mingle 
and  jointly  produce  this  glory  in  the  plenitude  of  wilderness 


f 

294  PAX 

harmony;  just  hear  the  magnificat  that  grand  musician  sings, 
this  river  forever  embellished  with  festoons  and  crowned  with 
orange  blossoms." 

"Apotheosis,  triumph,  magnificat,  hymn  of  glory? — "  ex- 
claimed Alejandro,  becoming  suddenly  thoughtful  and  rumina- 
tive. "  No,  Roberto.  You  are  now  thinking  of  these  rills  of 
clear  water,  of  those  pleasant  feminine  pettings,  .  .  .  and  I 
was  thinking  of  those  promises  of  blissful  love  here,  which  came 
true  for  other  generations  and  at  times  past  and  gone;  of 
the  sound  of  torrents  tumbling  and  roaring,  which  with  the 
accompaniment  of  their  rushing  uproar  invited  to  confidence. 
I  was  thinking  of  the  conflict  with  hands  furtively  stretched  out 
on  this  grassy  site,  and  of  the  laughter  on  fresh  faces  which  were 
reflected  in  this  pool.  And  love,  confidences,  smiles,  they  all 
have  passed  away:  the  idylls  have  vanished,  the  happy  couples 
have  aged,  the  mouths  which  showed  such  charming  smiles 
in  those  remote  years,  they  have  all  disappeared  never  to  re- 
turn, with  an  abominable  grin,  to  lie  in  a  corner  of  the  ceme- 
tery. .  .  .  That  music  you  dreamed  of  is  weeping  for  the 
springs  gone  and  forgotten,  for  extinguished  youth,  for  eternal 
absence;  the  river  intones  a  requiem  for  all  the  idylls,  a 
de  profundis  for  dead  happiness.  All  this  passes,  vanishes, 
dies, —  does  not  satisfy  me.  .  .  .  There  is  an  immense  distance 
between  the  void  of  my  heart  and  the  love  that  I  so  much 
longed  for.  There  lies  an  infinitude  of  space  between  what 
I  am  and  that  which  I  ought  to  be." 

"  Bravo!  "  exclaimed  the  voice  of  Doctor  Miranda  close  by, 
and  he  himself  appeared  between  two  gigantic  rocks. 

"  Hello!  Where  do  you  come  from?  "  said  Roberto.  "  You 
come  in  a  torn  cassock.  .  .  .  How  do  you  like  this  mountain 
air,  and  how  is  your  health?  Is  it  better?  Are  your  house- 
hold troubles  over?  .  .  .  Did  you  hear  us?  " 

"  Yes,  I  heard  the  last  sentence,"  replied  Doctor  Miranda, 
seating  himself  on  a  rock  beside  Alejandro.  "  Very  well, 
Alejandro.  You  speak  very  wisely.  But  that  does  not  as- 
tonish me.  '  There  lies  an  infinitude  of  space  between  what 
I  am  and  that  which  I  ought  to  be.  .  .  .'  That  is  you  all 
over.  In  the  absence  of  Agiieros  do  you  want  me  to  make  a 
diagnosis,  Alejandro?  You  are  the  victim  of  your  own  illu- 
sions. You  wish  for  a  degree  of  bliss  on  this  earth  much 

V 


THE  RIVER  295 

greater  than  is  possible  in  this  transitory  world.  Your  long- 
ings, your  desires  are  vaster  than  your  being.  .  .  .  What  you 
§id  just  now  is  an  argument  in  favor  of  immortality.  It  is 
r  headstrong  nature  which  rebels  when  it  is  denied.  You 
3,  if  you  two  will  permit  me  a  pulpit  phrase  in  this  primi- 
e  nook,  a  sort  of  Hebrew  Samson,  who  pulls  himself  erect 
d  with  his  shoulders  lifts  the  gates  of  his  prison." 

They  remained  in  silence.  Nothing  was  audible  save  the 
thunder  of  the  waterfall.  But  above  the  cauldron  of  spume 
there  passed  a  shadow;  they  lifted  their  heads  and  followed  with 
their  eyes  an  eagle  which,  bathing  himself  in  the  azure  of  the 
Ijeavens,  floated  far  above,  moving  his  wings  slowly,  then 
rose,  steadily  looking  in  the  sun,  and  at  last  fled  towards  the 
west,  crossing  the  mountain  chain. 

Doctor  Miranda  put  his  hand  upon  Alejandro's  shoulder,  and 
in  an  affectionate  voice  remarked: 

"  Dear  Alejandro,  you  are  a  caged  eagle." 

Roberto,  Alejandro  and  Doctor  Miranda,  refreshed  and  in- 
vigorated by  a  bath,  and  followed  by  Perucho  who  carried  their 
bathing  sheets,  took  a  path  along  the  mountain  side,  which 
led  to  the  village,  and  on  their  way  they  met  Montellano 
who,  with  his  bathing  clothes  slung  over  his  shoulder,  was 
on  his  way  to  take  a  bath.  The  millionaire  requested  Roberto 
to  accompany  him  for  some  distance  because  he  had  to  speak 
to  him,  and  Alejandro  and  Doctor  Miranda  continued  their 
walk  towards  the  settlement. 

"  Friend  Roberto,"  said  Montellano,  with  the  pride  of  a 
sportsman,  "  I  have  discovered  this  small  path  which  is  much 
shorter  to  the  river  than  the  other." 

He  had  really  created  for  himself  the  illusion  of  having 
opened  a  new  path  across  the  mountains,  and  he  flourished 
his  staff  to  right  and  left,  as  though  it  were  a  hatchet.  He 
slashed  into  the  waving  reeds,  cut  off  the  stalks  of  the  grow- 
ing plants,  made  the  flowers  of  the  convolvulus  fly  about. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  pool,  Montellano  pulled  off  his 
sack  coat  and  threw  it  on  a  spot  overgrown  with  weeds,  fanned 
himself  with  the  flap  of  his  straw  hat,  wiped  off  his  perspira- 
tion, and  bracing  himself,  turned  his  glittering  small  eyes  upon 
Roberto. 

"  We  must  speak  of  an  important  matter,"  he  remarked. 


296  PAX 

"  Let  me  know  what  it  is,  Don  Ramon." 

"  Friend  Roberto,  you  probably  know  that  Doctor  Alcon  will 
arrive  here  this  afternoon  from  Bogota." 

"I  did  not  know  it." 

"  He  is  going  to  confer  with  me  about  a  matter  which  is 
of  great  interest  to  me." 

"  I  am  listening,"  answered  Roberto,  with  haughty  and  sar- 
castic indifference. 

Montellano  became  silent,  hesitated,  threw  a  glance  at  the 
river  with  some  sign  of  uneasiness,  and  then,  snorting  vehe- 
mently, turned  towards  Roberto. 

"  All  right,  let  me  be  plain.  We  ought  to  understand  each 
other,  friend  Avila.  I  shall  talk  to  you  in  confidence.  We 
have  to  speak  without  subterfuge.  It  is  a  serious  matter.  Do 
you  want  me  to  speak  out  or  not?  " 

Roberto,  with  his  smile  of  delicate  scorn,  his  hands  in  his 
pocket,  made  a  slight  movement  with  his  shoulders  which  might 
have  been  taken  as  a  gesture  of  assent. 

"  Good,"  continued  Don  Ramon.  "  I  always  like  to  treat 
things  frankly,  to  take  the  bull  by  the  horns.  I  am  going  to 
speak  plainly.  Doctor  Alcon,  the  able  member  of  the  cabinet, 
is  coming  here  to-day.  He  has  for  some  time  been  an  admirer 
of  my  daughter  Dolores." 

"I  see." 

"  He  is,  like  myself,  a  man  who  comes  quickly  to  the 
point." 

"  I  see." 

"  And  he  is  coming  here  to  get  an  answer,  yes  or  no,  be- 
tween to-day  and  to-morrow." 

"  I  see." 

Montellano,  noticing  Roberto's  sarcastic  tone,  and  the  cold 
and  scornful  smile  which  played  around  his  lips,  lost  his  self- 
assurance.  After  another  silence,  he  began  to  fan  himself 
anew  with  his  hat,  and  went  on : 

"  Well,  no,  the  thing  is  not  quite  so  simple.  That  is,  I 
do  not  know  for  certain  whether  Dolores  .  .  .  that  is,  whether 
Doctor  Alcon  .  .  .  Well,  you  understand  me,  don't  you?" 

"Not  entirely." 

Facing  Roberto's  scornful  smile,  Montellano  began  to  lose 
his  temper.  But  he  succeeded  in  remaining  calm  on  the 


THE  RIVER  297 

surface,  wiped  his  abundant  perspiration  from  his  forehead,  his 
neck  and  skull,  gave  his  eyes  an  affectionate  expression,  and 
to  his  voice  a  wheedling,  almost  plaintive  one. 

"  See  here,  my  friend,  I  must  think  of  my  child's  future. 
I  have  to  be  both  father  and  mother  to  her.  As  for  Aura, 
she  does  not  come  into  question  in  this  business.  All  right. 
I  do  not  have  to  tell  you  that  I  like  Doctor  Alcon:  a  practical 
man,  one  with  fine  prospects,  and  also  one  of  great  influence. 
I  will  not  waste  time  on  such  details;  the  important  thing  for 
me  is  ...  is  ..  ." 

"Is  yourself?" 

"Myself?  All  right,  yes,  myself.  I  want  Doctor  Alcon  to 
marry  Dolores.  That  would  suit  me.  But  speaking  to  you 
entirely  in  confidence,  I  will  say  that  it  is  now  a  year  ago, 
to  be  precise,  a  year  all  but  ten  days,  for  to-day  is  the  30th  of 
December,  yes,  sir,  since  we  met  you  at  El  Consuelo  for  the 
first  time.  It  is  now  a  year  that  you  have  been  fluttering  like  a 
butterfly  around  Dolores  .  .  .  and  this  is  not  quite  proper 
and  suitable  either  for  Dolores  and  myself,  nor  even  for  your- 
self. I  can  understand  it  if  she  has  a  certain  attraction  for 
you.  The  case  is  simply  this,  that  inasmuch  as  you  have  no 
serious  intentions,  whereas  Doctor  Alcon  has,  you  might  help 
disabuse  Dolores." 

Roberto  felt  piqued,  kept  silent,  and  in  his  face  there  was 
again  to  be  read  an  expression  of  delicate  scorn,  and  he  re- 
peated the  same  movement  with  his  shoulders  which  Montel- 
lano,  with  his  ingrained  lack  of  tact,  took  to  mean  approval. 

"  See  here,  Roberto,"  he  said,  therefore,  "  you  have  influence 
with  her,  you  might  advise  Dolores,  help  her  to  decide,  show 
her  Alcon's  worth." 

"  I'll  do  it,"  was  his  reply.  "  Be  easy,  I'll  do  it  this  very 
evening." 

"  Good,  good,  very  good.  I  see,  as  you  put  it.  I  see  that, 
after  all,  we  two  are  made  to  understand  each  other,  and  .  .  ." 
"Ah,  you  must  excuse  me,  Don  Ramon.  To  that  I  cannot  at 
all  agree.  'Made  to  understand  each  other?'"  Roberto  re- 
peated after  him,  bursting  into  a  fit  of  hearty  laughter.  "  No, 
you  must  excuse  me.  We  shall  never  understand  each  other. 
We  speak  two  different  languages,  and  we  belong  to  two  op- 
posite races.  I  am  neither  inferior  nor  superior  to  you.  The 


298  PAX 

point  is  that  we  are  of  different  species.  Each  of  us  has  a 
different  idea  of  life  itself.  For  me  mankind  is  made  up  of 
two  groups:  artists  and  savages.  For  you  it  also  consists  of 
two  classes:  poor  and  rich.  You  disdain  what  I  admire,  and  I 
value  very  little  what  you  think  so  much  of.  We  live,  in  fact, 
on  two  different  planets.  For  you  the  external  struggle,  the 
heaping  of  money,  capital  as  father  and  interest  as  son,  the 
check,  the  document,  the  stocks,  the  letter  of  exchange,  the 
commercial  code;  for  me  the  internal  struggle,  reflection,  dreams, 
the  artistic  line,  color,  expression,  disinterest,  the  proof  sheet, 
the  code  of  honor.  .  .  .  And  these  differences  are  irremediable. 
They  are  differences  that  come  down  from  far  off,"  went  on 
Roberto,  becoming  more  and  more  animated,  letting  fly  those 
words  which  had  been  imprisoned  for  long  in  his  throat.  "  I, 
I  a  descendant,  and  remember,  I  say,  a  descendant,  of  an 
imaginative  and  dreamy  race,  a  race  that  for  many,  many 
years  was  always  seeking  death  in  Spain,  a  useless  death,  one 
that  brought  no  advantage,  during  the  wars  against  the  Moors, 
a  race  that  conquered  Granada,  that  went  afterwards  to  Amer- 
ica to  help  civilize  an  unknown  world;  a  race  of  dreamers,  a 
race  made  to  love,  and  if  you  will,  a  Quixotic  race.  .  .  .  And 
you,  the  ascendant,  and  mark  well  that  I  say,  ascendant,  of 
a  new  branch,  are  of  to-day, —  self-made, —  a  son  of  your  own 
achievements,  your  own  efforts,  which  is  a  merit.  You  go 
onwards,  while  I  go  backwards.  We  meet  each  other  for  a 
moment  on  the  highroad,  and  we  exchange  greeting.  But  we 
do  not  understand  each  other,  and  as  we  are  traveling  in  op- 
posite directions,  we  bid  each  other  good-by,  we  are  separated 
by  a  greater  and  greater  distance  each  saying  to  the  other: 
till  never  again!  " 

And  turning  his  shoulder  around,  whistling  the  well-known 
air  from  Carmen,  he  strode  hastily  off  through  the  cane  planta- 
tion. 

Montellano  remained  alone.  He  did  not  understand  much 
of  what  Roberto  had  meant  by  his  declamation,  but,  after  all, 
saw  with  satisfaction  that  he  had  succeeded  in  his  proposition: 
to  separate  this  young  man  from  his  daughter, —  this  irrepar- 
able dreamer, —  so  that  he  would  no  longer  pursue  his  object  like 
an  irresponsible  butterfly  of  the  air,  and  decide  the  situation, 
once  for  all,  in  favor  of  Doctor  Alcon,  a  safe  man,  bold  and 


THE  RIVER  299 

not  squeamish  in  his  means,  the  man  with  whom  a  mysterious 
bond  united  him,  with  whom  he  was  able  to  expand,  to  whom 
he  might  confide  his  combinations  and  schemes  without  the 
risk  of  an  aggressive  issue.  .  .  .  With  him,  yes.  With  him 
there  was  no  danger  of  being  misunderstood.  They  both  felt 
allied  by  the  ties  of  similar  tastes,  they  both  belonged  to  the 
same  species. 

And  with  the  aim  of  meeting  Doctor  Alcon  when  he  should 
arrive  from  Bogota, —  his  future  son-in-law,  as  he  kept  on 
reminding  himself  gaily, —  he  had  gone  to  the  bath,  so  that 
he  might  stop  him  when  crossing  the  bridge  that  spanned  the 
waterfall.  And  in  order  to  be  busy  at  something  useful  while 
awaiting  his  coming  he  took  from  the  pocket  of  his  sack  coat 
a  bundle  of  papers  and  began  to  study  them,  without  paying 
attention  to  the  sun  which  roasted  his  back,  nor  to  the  over- 
powering light  which  struck  his  pages. 

A  cloud  of  butterflies  fluttered  around  him,  and  one  of  them 
sat  down  for  rest  and  meditation  on  his  bundle  of  papers. 
Montellano  smashed  it  by  a  rough  slap  of  his  hand,  and  with 
a  grunt  blew  away  the  gold  that  had  settled  from  the  crushed 
wings.  Then  behind  him,  overhead,  he  felt  the  bridge  trem- 
bling and  shaking.  At  last!  It  was  Doctor  Alcon  with  a 
whole  train  of  his  employees  from  the  department. 

"Doctor  Alcon!"  he  shouted.  "Doctor!  Here  you  are! 
Get  off  your  beast;  dismount!  Join  in  a  bath!  " 

They  had  now  come  up.  Alcon  who  had  just  traversed  the 
wilderness  with  its  damp,  had  his  eyeglasses  misty  with  his 
own  breath,  and  was  blinking  and  dazzled  by  exposure  to  the 
blinding  sun.  He  dismounted  amidst  moans  and  complaints, 
tied  his  white  mule  himself  to  the  trunk  of  an  orange  tree. 
His  animal  showed  on  its  back  the  sweat-flecked  reins  and 
a  layer  of  gray  dust. 

"The  hour  for  my  milk!  "  exclaimed  Don  Cosme  Oramas. 

He  looked  to  one  side,  as  though  seeking  instinctively  the 
wall  clock  in  his  office.  He  drew  out  a  bottle  and  a  glass  from 
a  small  bag,  a  supply  of  biscuits  from  another  pocket,  then 
poured  out  the  milk,  and  with  delight  began  to  soak  the  spongy 
cake. 

The  animals  started  to  graze  in  the  shade  of  the  trees  or  else 
rolled  on  the  ground  and  squealed  luxuriously  on  the  grass. 


300  PAX 

Alcon's  mule  began  to  nip  dainties  on  the  brambly  spot  near 
by. 

"  My  dear  Alcon,"  said  Montellano  to  the  Minister,  who, 
worn  out  by  fatigue  had  thrown  himself  on  the  ground.  "  I 
am  glad  to  have  you  here.  Now  we  are  going  to  take  a  bath, 
and  you  will  see  how  quickly  your  fatigue  will  pass  away. 
...  I  see  already  how  after  the  public  sale  I  shall  have  the 
Sabanilla  railroad  on  my  hands, —  after  fulfilling  all  required 
formalities, —  at  a  million.  The  Government  has  done  a  bril- 
liant stroke  of  business.  The  road  is  worth  nothing.  The  river 
traffic  by  way  of  Bocas  de  Ceniza  has  killed  it.  Day  after  to- 
morrow, on  the  first  of  January,  the  first  large  vessel  of  the 
company  passes  through,  and  everything  is  quiet,  and  nobody 
is  talking  of  war,  as  Ronderos  used  to  do  constantly.  Good, 
for  what  we  return  please  give  me  the  decree  for  the  '48  issue 
of  bonds.  That  cursed  old  Ronderos  did  not  want  to  re- 
establish the  old  fund.  ...  I  know  already  all  about  that  op- 
eration just  as  I  do  about  the  loans  .  .  ." 

Alcon  collected  himself,  gave  Montellano  a  sharp  glance, 
made  a  very  grave  face,  and  put  on  his  ministerial  frown. 

"  Ah,  Don  Ramon,"  he  said,  "  we  shall  see,  .  .  .  afterwards 
...  we  shall  not  delay  the  matter  ...  the  question  shall  be 
studied.  .  .  .  After  all,  this  does  not  depend  upon  me  ...  it 
is  not  entrusted  to  my  department." 

"Why,  on  whom  does  it  depend,  then?  " 

Alcon  compressed  his  lips,  and  shot  a  meaningful  glance 
at  his  questioner. 

"  On  whom  does  it  depend?  .  .  .  hm,  hm!  Rather  on  you, 
on  you  yourself." 

Montellano  now  understood,  and  felt  a  vague  disquiet.  If 
Dolores  should  not  consent?  If  Roberto  should  not  keep  his 
promise?  .  .  .  He  had  so  much  business  to  transact  in  that 
department ! 

Doctor,  Serior  Minister,  your  honor  ought  to  take  a  bath 
now.  That  will  refresh  you,  and  you  will  feel  much  rested. 
After  that  we  shall  go  to  my  house.  Aura  is  awaiting  you 
for  dinner.  .  .  .  Dolores  told  me  that  it  would  give  her  much 
pleasure  to  see  you  ...  she  also  is  waiting  for  you." 

Hearing  the  name  of  Dolores,  Alcon's  face  brightened,  began 


THE  RIVER  301 

to  look  more  human,  and  his  false  little  smile  shone  all  over 
his  countenance. 

"  We'll  try  this  bath,"  he  said. 

And  he  had  grown  so  merry  that  he  burst  out  into  a  tre- 
mendous laugh,  and  both  men  began  to  undress. 

"  Sefior  Don  Ramon,"  then  remarked  the  Minister,  in  a 
confidential,  familiar  tone,  "  my  excellent  friend  (he  pulled  off 
the  one  sleeve),  as  you  know  (pulling  off  the  other),  I  have 
for  quite  a  long  time  been  expecting  an  answer.  ...  I  am  go- 
ing to  prove  to  you  that  you  did  wisely  (and  he  folded  his  coat 
up  with  great  care),  to  give  me  your  advice  upon  the  subject 
of  matrimony.  .  .  .  Yes,  Seiior  Don  Ramon,  let  us  talk  about 
this  with  entire  frankness,  with  an  open  heart  (and  he  unbut- 
toned his  waistcoat),  for  you  and  I  are  men  with  hair  on 
our  chests  (he  pulled  off  his  shirt).  Those  personal  mat- 
ters of  an  urgent  character  are  difficult  to  deal  with.  As  our 
beautiful  language  says:  To  him  whom  the  clout  was  never 
made  for,  his  breeches  may  give  sores."  (And  he  unbuttoned 
his  breeches.) 

"  Talk,  friend,  talk,"  rumbled  Montellano,  his  voice  nearly 
drowned  by  the  rushing  sound  of  the  river.  "  You  never  in 
your  life  had  to  put  on  a  shirt  of  eleven  varas  (and  he  hung 
his  enormous  shirt  of  tartan  stuff  on  a  bush)  and  know  better 
than  anybody  where  the  shoe  pinches  (pulling  off  the  shoe  on 
his  right  foot)." 

"  Well,  then,  Don  Ramon,  as  I  do  not  care  to  speak  in  rid- 
dles (and  he  managed  to  pull  both  his  socks  off),  I  want  to 
say  that  I  wish  the  wedding  to  take  place  as  soon  as  possible. 
.  .  .  You  say  that  she  on  her  part  has  made  up  her  mind.  .  .  . 
Then  it  is  an  understood  matter  between  us  two." 

Alcon  was  in  good  humor,  loquacious,  and  burst  out  sud- 
denly in  high-pitched  laughter,  as  brusk  as  the  neighing  of  a 
horse. 

"  Haha,  haha,"  he  neighed,  "  I  shall  talk  to  Dolores  this  very 
evening." 

Montellano  now  stepped  up  to  the  clear,  cool  pool,  and  im- 
mersed himself,  then  drew  out  his  head  which  was  streaming 
water  all  over  the  face,  and  shouted  to  Alcon  who  was  wait- 
ing at  the  bank  and  touching  the  cold  water  carefully  with  the 


302  PAX 

point  of  his  toe,  not  wishing  to  "  cultivate  closer  relations," 
as  he  would  say  in  diplomatic  parlance,  with  it. 

"  I  pledge  myself  to  do  all  that  I  can,  although  she  is 
sometimes  rather  self-willed,"  said  Montellano,  "  but  let  us 
talk  plainly.  Between  us  two  there  must  not  be  any  mystery. 
.  .  .  We  understand  each  other.  You  know  that  I  have  some- 
thing. It  is  all  invested  at  good  profit.  Look  at  the  nice 
fit  I  made  with  La  Danta.  ...  As  my  wedding  gift  I  shall 
make  over  to  you  the  deeds  of  Cebaderos  and  two  houses  in 
Royal  Street.  .  .  .  Good.  .  .  .  But,  that  being  so,  let  us  make 
another  loan  the  coming  week.  .  .  .  Give  me  the  decree  for 
the  amortization  fund  of  the  bonds  of  '48.  Really?  How 
much  is  it?  .  .  .  More  than  eight  hundred  thousand  pesos  for 
payment  of  the  railroad." 

Roberto,  on  leaving  Montellano,  had  taken  the  path  up  the 
hill.  On  reaching  the  summit  and  arriving  at  the  highroad, 
he  halted  pantingly,  and  then  followed  the  road  slowly.  He 
was  in  a  meditating  and  disgusted  mood,  and  a  vague  sentiment, 
a  mingling  of  anger,  of  sadness  and  distrust,  had  crept  into  his 
heart.  At  first  he  resolved  not  to  speak  to  Dolores.  What, 
after  all,  did  these  people  matter  to  him?  Let  them  shift  for 
themselves.  Let  Alcon  and  Montellano  arrange  their  affairs 
as  they  saw  fit.  Whether  Dolores  married  or  no,  and  whether 
Alcon  or  somebody  else  became  her  husband,  made  very  little 
difference  to  him.  Really?  .  .  .  Did  it  mean  so  little  to 
him? 

He  met  the  great  crowd  of  summer  guests  who  after  their 
bath  were  taking  their  afternoon  stroll.  Dona  Aura  de  Mon- 
tellano was  strolling  along  in  the  midst  of  a  bevy  of  girls 
that  followed  her,  talking  and  laughing, —  was  affecting  a 
juvenile  agility,  walked  with  a  swaying  step,  and  when  smiling 
showed  all  her  teeth  in  the  midst  of  which  there  shone  a  solid 
gold  one,  the  result  of  biting  into  an  unripe  apple,  as  she 
claimed. 

"  Roberto,  come  here,  Roberto,"  she  called  to  him.  "  I  must 
show  you  some  verses  that  I  wrote  yesterday  in  the  shade  of 
that  fruit  tree  yonder,  in  a  moment  of  inspiration.  They  are 
intended  for  the  January  issue  of  the  Mujer  Independiente." 


THE  RIVER  303 

The  girls  in  her  train  had  laughingly  ran  away  as  soon  as  she 
had  started  reciting: 

TWILIGHT  STRAINS 

How  pallid  is  Phoebus  of  sapphirine  light 

While  in  his  arms  the  sun  clasps  the  night. 

The  rose  to  thee  opes  her  homesick  bosom, 

In    the    sun's    greenish    waves    so    swiftly    declining, 

How  pallid  is  Phoebus  of  sapphirine  light! 

In  the  crisp  golden  hue  of  toppling  rushes, 

And  in  the  turquoise  blue  of  an  abyss  that  crushes, 

Reddens  the  blood  of  the  sun  now  dying, 

With  pinky  roses  and  primroses  yellow, 

In  the  crisp  golden  hue  of  toppling  rushes. 

The  shadows  ravish  the  stars  anemic 
With  their  polychrome  faded  shimmering, 
And  their  multicolored  faintest  glimmering, 
And  like  bloodless  loves  endemic, 
The  shadows  ravish  the  stars  anemic. 

The  passers-by  took  the  road  to  Volador,  avoiding  the  hill- 
side; from  the  depths  of  the  can  brake  came  the  dull  thunder 
of  the  river. 

In  a  group  were  walking  together  Doctor  Miranda,  Alejandro, 
Doctor  Agiieros,  and  Bellegarde. 

"  To-morrow,"  said  Bellegarde,  "  to  greet  the  new  year,  the 
first  deep-bottomed  vessel  will  pass  through  the  Bocas  de 
Ceniza.  Despite  certain  recent  events,  of  which  I  as  a  for- 
eigner have  no  right  to  give  an  opinion,  I  hope  that  peace  will 
not  be  disturbed." 

"  Peace,  yes,  there  is  peace,"  replied  Doctor  Agiieros,  "  the 
peace  of  Poland.  .  .  .  Ronderos  has  endeavored  to  keep  us 
caged  in  golden  cages.  .  .  .  And  his  successors  follow  in  his 
wake.  .  .  .  Frankly  I  tell  you,  dear  Count,  I  who  have  been 
fighting  your  projects,  your  canalization  enterprise,  that  since 
all  this  has  been  undertaken  by  this  present  government,  it 
is  inadvisable,  because  it  will  enable  this  same  government  to 
overcome  the  defenders  of  the  national  Constitution.  The  mo- 
mentary evil  will  only  become  a  permanent  disease." 

"  That  which  I  see  in  the  country,"  interrupted  the  Count, 


304  PAX 

"  after  the  lapse  of  ten  years  of  peace,  is  great  activity,  great 
hope,  great  cheerfulness.  Do  you  not  hear  yourself  the  merry 
bustle,  the  laughter  and  songs  of  those  happy  young  people 
over  yonder?  Well,  thus  it  is  all  over  the  whole  country." 

"  No,  dear  Count,"  retorted  Doctor  Agiieros,  "  it  is  impos- 
sible for  this  feudal  colony  of  Philip  II  and  of  Father  Thomas 
de  Torquemada  ever  to  attain  to  a  perfect  psychological  con- 
dition. .  .  .  And  in  speaking  that  way  I  do  not  mean  our 
progressive  and  enlightened  clergy,  such  people  as  Doctor 
Miranda,  but  I  am  referring  to  that  drove  of  foreign  adven- 
turers, people  of  low  extraction,  who  come  here  after  being 
driven  out  of  their  own  lands  to  fatten  themselves  on  us,  dis- 
guised under  the  pompous  name  of  sisters  of  charity  or  mis- 
sionaries." 

"  Beg  pardon,"  broke  in  Alejandro  with  some  heat,  "  you 
must  have  visited  many  hospitals,  Doctor,  and  must  have 
watched  these  same  sisters  of  charity  from  close  by.  You 
must  know  whether  it  can  be  the  money  they  earn  that  has  sent 
these  pious  woman  on  their  painful  mission.  .  .  .  You  speak 
of  people  of  low  birth.  .  .  .  And  you,  apostle  of  democracy,  say 
this?  ...  Of  course,  the  nobility  of  blood  plays  no  important 
part  in  this  matter.  But  I  see  now  that  you,  a  radical  demo- 
crat, demand  just  that  in  order  to  take  care  of  the  sick  and 
dying.  Good,  I  am  glad  of  this  change  in  your  ideas.  And 
besides,  I  am  acquainted,  for  instance,  with  a  sister  of  charity 
who  bears  in  her  escutcheon  the  cross  of  the  Crusades  and  in 
her  veins  the  blood  of  Mortemar." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  replied  Agiieros,  "  I  have  seen  her  from  afar;  it  is 
Sister  San  Ligorio  .  .  .  she  is  neurotic.  But  I  do  not  want 
to  emphasize  that  feature  of  the  question.  The  sisters  of  char- 
ity are  excellent  women  in  their  way,  although  they  might  be 
displaced  by  English  nurses  who  are  in  some  respects  superior 
to  them.  What  I  do  claim  is  that  this  country  cannot  prosper 
while  we  are  under  the  control  of  a  government  that  leans 
entirely  upon  the  army  and  the  clergy,  that  is  to  say,  upon  those 
who  kill  and  those  who  lie.  Excluding  in  my  arraignment,  of 
course,  as  always,  my  dear  Doctor  Miranda  and  those  few 
others  who  resemble  him.  .  .  .  But  the  foreign  clergy,  the 
missionaries,  they  leave  their  own  countries  merely  to  accumulate 


: 


THE  RIVER  305 

riches,  to  engage  in  profitable  trade,  to  seek  and  succeed  in 
life." 

"  To  seek  life  .  .  ."  exclaimed  Doctor  Miranda,  with  an 
accent  of  irony.  "  To  seek  adventures  and  wealth !  These 
men  who  in  the  school  of  Catholic  apostleship  have  solely  learned 
the  science  of  seeking  death!  " 

They  all  stopped  walking.  Doctor  Miranda  stood  in  the 
center  of  the  group,  his  cheeks  aflame,  his  eyes  flashing  with 
indignation.  .  .  . 

"Seek  death?"  he  proceeded,  "die,  do  I  say?  ...  But 
that  does  not  tell  it  all.  .  .  .  For  they  sacrifice  their  lives  not 
once,  nor  twice.  .  .  .  No,  what  the  missionary  learns,  what 
that  foreign  priest  whom  you  so  abhor,  learns,  is  the  art  of 
dying,  of  dying  every  instant,  of  dying  all  the  time.  First  he 
dies  for  his  own  family,  for  father,  mother,  for  all  that  we 
ourselves  have  and  hold  dear,  and  all  that  makes  life  worth 
living,  all  this  he  gives  up  forever.  And  he  dies  again,  dies 
a  second  time,  for  friendship.  He  has  to  tear  himself  loose  once 
more  and  for  always  from  his  new  paternal  home.  Fatherland  ? 
He  has  not  even  a  fatherland.  .  .  .  He  dies  anew  in  coming 
to  faraway  regions,  to  the  impenetrable  forests  of  America, 
to  the  deserts  of  Caqueta,  to  the  prairies  of  Casanare,  where 
the  sky,  the  mountains,  the  customs  and  manners,  even  the 
language,  remind  him  forever  that  he  is  a  man  without  a  coun- 
try. .  .  .  And  after  dying  thrice,  he  has  still  to  die,  with 
an  agony  that  never  ceases  and  which  is  bound  to  last  until 
the  last  hour  of  his  span  of  life,  for  he  must  die  also  to  him- 

iself,  must  extinguish  every  longing  of  his  very  heart  and 
spirit." 

Alejandro,  who  was  moved  and  stirred  to  the  very  depths 
of  his  soul,  drew  closer  to  the  priest  and  offered  him  his  arm. 
They  all  went  on  in  silence,  Doctor  Agiieros  being  in  bad 
humor,  and  nobody  either  ventured  to  pursue  the  conversation 
on  the  same  topic  or  to  turn  into  new  channels.  The  words  of 
Doctor  Miranda  had  disturbed  all  his  hearers.  But  suddenly 
they  all  involuntarily  stopped  at  a  curve  in  the  road  to  admire 
the  panorama  and  to  linger  on  the  view  presented. 

In  front  of  them,  on  the  hills,  there  were  huge  yellow  patches , 
of  withered  pasture  ground;  there  were  the  traces  of  some  fire, 


306  PAX 

black  and  of  capricious  forms  and  hues.  Farther  away,  cling- 
ing to  the  hillsides,  there  were  small  houses  of  blinding  white, 
sheltered  all  about  by  weeping  willows  whose  graceful  plum- 
age was  swaying  to  and  fro  in  the  gentle  breeze,  and  farther 
below  were  the  meadows  between  which  the  river  was  flowing 
musically.  A  bluish  mist  was  veiling  the  outlines  of  distant 
objects.  Upon  the  summits  of  the  hills  some  trees  were  traced 
with  softness  upon  the  reddish  atmosphere  towards  the  setting 
sun.  In  the  veiled  distance  columns  of  smoke  rose  straight 
and  clear  to  the  sky;  a  huge  bonfire  on  the  foggy  horizon 
blazed  up  and  went  down  with  varying  fire  effects.  There 
could  be  seen,  filtering  slowly  across  the  enclosure  of  willows, 
the  glare  of  a  fire.  .  .  . 

"  Roberto,  a  folksong,  with  words  of  your  own." 
And  he,  strumming  his  mandolin,  burst  out  singing,  ac- 
companied by  all  the  girls  who  followed  him  in  a  harmonious 
and  far-reaching  chorus  with  their  fresh  and  brisk  voices,  and 
over  them  all  the  voice  of  Dolores  thrilling  with  passion  was 
clearly  distinguishable : 

Death    is    sweet    if    it    comes 
•     Snatching  me  from  thy  side; 
My  hands  between  thine, 
Thy  lips  upon  mine. 

The  voices  were  stilled  a  moment,  the  mandolins  continuing 
their  plaintive  rhythm,  scattering  melancholy  through  the  rushes 
whence  the  invisible  river  still  sent  its  own  somber  tune.  But 
the  chorus  began  once  more: 

•  Oh,  but  how  sad  his  coming 
In  a  lonesome  spot, 
If   thine   eyes   do   not   rest   on   mine, 
My  lips  not  touch  thine. 

How  beautiful  Dolores  was  that  night!  She  was  youth  it- 
self, youth  in  bloom.  On  the  banks  of  the  river,  remembering 
her  childhood,  she  had  broken  off  and  gathered  bunches  of 
wildflowers  in  the  woods,  of  those  flowers  without  number  and 
without  name  which  embellish  the  wilderness.  Without  a  mir- 
ror, without  knowledge  of  the  fashion,  she  had  wound  those 
stray  blossoms  into  her  wealth  of  curly  hair.  With  this  simple 


THE  RIVER  307 

ornament,  in  this  strange  and  unfettered  guise,  her  beauty  har- 
monized deliciously  with  the  beauty  of  her  surroundings. 

And  in  a  movement  of  admiration,  Roberto  compared  her 
to  those  flowers  which  have  just  opened  their  hearts  in  the 
copses  of  the  woods,  to  those  gladiolas  which  flourish  on  the 
verge  of  the  road,  filled  with  the  rays  of  the  sun  and  which, 
in  that  instant,  in  the  splendors  of  a  sunny  afternoon,  spread 
all  the  delicate  perfume  of  their  corollas.  In  the  depths  of 
her  black  eyes  could  be  divined  her  secret  burden,  the  pre- 
mature fatigue  of  life,  the  satiety  of  the  soul,  the  breaking  up 
of  the  first  love  which  yet  surrounded  Dolores  with  a  luminous 
nimbus. 

"  Why  are  you  singing  these  sad  songs,  Roberto?  " 
"Have  you  ever  heard  merry  folksongs?     Do  you  not  re- 
member this  stanza  of  Pombo's: 

"  A  wayward  tune, 

Friend  yet  destroyer, 

Which    weeps    with    the    weeper, 

Yet  soon  wakes  woe." 

And  Dolores  continued: 

"  Oh,   for  a  burst  of  laughter, 
Turbulent,  bestial, 
But  glowing  with  passion 
And  fire  celestial." 

"  Very  good,  Dolores.  I  admit  my  defeat.  But  let  us  not 
go  back  to  melancholy  songs,  and  rather  speak  of  pleasant 
things,"  answered  Roberto  in  a  tone  of  scarcely  perceptible  dis- 
pleasure, "  for  right  now  I  am  going  to  tell  you  a  piece  of 
good  news." 

"  A  piece  of  good  news?  " 

She  listened  to  him  hesitatingly,  always  afraid  of  his  caprices, 
and  suspicious  of  him,  and  in  order  to  avoid  disappointment, 
she  instantly  made  up  her  mind  to  collect  herself  and  to  show 
a  prudent  reserve,  to  oppose  her  valor  to  his  pride,  with  the 
spirit  of  her  race  of  fighters. 

"What  is  the  news?" 

"  Doctor  Alcon  is  going  to  arrive  here  this  evening." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,  for  he  is  a  good  friend  of  my  father's." 


308  PAX 

"  But  he  is  a  better  admirer  of  your  own :  a  model  wooer,  fine 
and  constant." 

"  In  that  case  he  has  one  quality  which  others  lack." 

"Which  quality?" 

"Well,  that  one  .  .  .the  one  you  just  named:   constancy." 

"  Doctor  Alcon  is  full  of  good  qualities,  who  dares  doubt 
it?" 

"  You  yourself  admit  it." 

"  I  know  what  he  is  looking  for  in  Ubaque.  According  to 
what  you  intimate,  after  so  many  other  successes,  he  will  achieve 
here  one  more.  His  honor  is  coming  to  propose  to  you  to  be- 
come his  wife." 

Silence.  Two  little  birds  close  by  are  chasing  each  other,  ris- 
ing, falling,  lose  themselves  at  last  in  the  amber  atmosphere. 

"And  what  do  you  advise  me  to  do,  Roberto?"  asked 
Dolores  in  her  voice  of  clear  crystal. 

"  That  you  take  counsel  with  an  adviser  who  never  deceives 
us.  Consult  your  heart." 

"  And  what  if  my  heart  does  not  care  to  answer,  if  it  is  silent, 
and  remains  mute,  if  it  is  afraid  to  talk,"  she  concluded  in  a 
low  voice,  which  seemed  to  strangle  and  die. 

"  Then  that  is  proof  that  you  must  take  counsel  with  your 
head." 

"  And  what  is  that  going  to  say?  " 

"  That  Doctor  Alcon  is  a  man  who  has  made  his  way  up- 
ward steadily  and  rapidly,  enterprising  and  laborious  ...  a 
writer  of  merit,  a  practical  man  of  common  sense,  a  minister 
who  seems  exempt  from  bad  fortune,  one  who  understands  how 
to  combat  and  how  to  win.  .  .  .  That  life  itself  is  not  a  poem 
.  .  .  and  that  you  had  better  not  trust  those  dreamers,  those 
fickle  ones,  those  of  complicated  nature,  those  who  like  sad 
folksongs,  and  those  who  do  not  believe  in  paragons." 

They  followed  the  others  in  silence,  Roberto  with  his  head 
hanging  low,  she  with  head  on  high,  with  eyes  that  shone  with 
suppressed  pain  and  fear. 

The  immense  shadow  of  the  Guayacunde  fell  aslant  the 
brows  of  the  hills  and  declivities.  From  the  depths  rose  the 
perfumes  of  the  jessamines  and  of  humbler  flowers,  mingled 
with  those  of  primroses  and  fruit  trees,  and  the  tepid  aroma 
emitted  by  the  sugar  mills,  whence  issued  the  long  thumping 


THE  RIVER  309 

of  the  engines,  at  regular  intervals,  the  whistling  and  songs 
of  the  carriers  and  drivers.  The  dusky  air  was  already  swept 
with  twilight  shadows,  while  overhead  could  still  be  seen  wings 
of  birds  gilt  by  the  dying  sun,  and  these  looked  like  creatures 
aflame.  Between  the  rows  of  trees,  the  street  musicians,  with  a 
variety  of  popular  tunes  sang  and  played  their  best,  seeking  ap- 
plause from  all, —  balconies  and  chairs, —  delighted  their  hear- 
ers with  improvizations  in  inimitable  style,  and  as  an  encore 
to  her  cavatina  the  mountain  primadonna  would  respond,  just 
as  in  the  case  of  arias  with  chorus,  with  the  Spanish  folksong, 
the  bambuco,  this  other  free-souled  and  primitive  song,  and  the 
plaint  of  the  mandolin : 

My   hands   between   thine, 
Thy  lips  upon  mine. 

"  I  should  like  to  go  that  way,"  murmured  Roberto,  giving 
himself  up  to  sadness,  "  in  a  year,  in  a  day,  amid  these 
simple,  great  things,  and  murmur  my  last  words  together  with 
those  of  these  innocent  and  pure  beings." 

He  raised  his  eyes.  The  sky,  clear  and  very  high,  was 
speckled  with  stars.  A  zone  of  luminous  dust  covered  the  whole 
firmament  from  one  extreme  to  the  other.  The  fireflies  began  to 
shed  a  dim  luster  like  sparks  torn  away  by  the  wind  from  a 
far  away  conflagration.  Out  of  the  cane  brake,  the  depths,  the 
trees  and  bushes  the  odors  of  the  night  plants  and  flowers 
exhaled  their  perfume,  and  the  confused  harmonies  of  this  na- 
ture which  in  falling  asleep  retains  the  mingled  palpitations 
and  murmurs.  There  floated  all  around  an  immense  calm  in 
the  midst  of  which  was  raised  the  voice  of  the  river  which  was 
still  intoning  the  requiem  of  idylls,  the  de  profundis  of  buried 
bliss.  An  outline  approached  Dolores  and  Roberto. 

"  Is  it  you,  Doctor  Alcon?  I  had  not  recognized  you,"  ex- 
claimed Roberto.  "Are  you  looking  for  Dolores?  I  believe 
she  was  waiting  for  you.  .  .  .  Good  night!  " 


310  PAX 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

A   MASQUERADE   BALL 

IT  is  the  thirty-first  of  December.  All  the  summer  guests  in 
Ubaque,  the  Bogota  people  who  have  come  to  seek  in  that 
smiling  place  relief  from  care  and  diversion,  health  and  in- 
tercourse with  persons  similarly  inclined,  have  met  in  the 
pleasant  anticipation  of  another  day  of  amusement.  Alejandro 
and  Roberto  are  giving  that  night  a  farewell  masquerade  ball  in 
honor  of  Count  Bellegarde  at  the  Union  Club,  as  the  Count  is 
starting  on  his  homeward  journey  for  Europe  on  the  following 
day.  The  year  is  departing,  and  departing  amidst  laughter 
and  flowers,  rejoicings  and  amusements. 

As  the  Count  wished  to  see  the  lagoon  of  Ubaque,  he  has 
undertaken  a  trip  with  his  friends  through  the  hills  which  lead 
to  it.  At  the  head  of  the  whole  cavalcade  rides  General  Ron- 
deros. 

"  You  cannot  imagine,"  he  said,  "  how  happy  I  feel.  That 
life  of  unending  preoccupation,  of  anxieties  and  unrest,  was 
a  burden  too  heavy  for  my  shoulders.  To  make  peace  secure, 
to  insure  a  quick  development  of  affairs,  was  my  only  ambi- 
tion while  in  the  cabinet,  and  I  believe  I  have  done  my  share 
towards  that  end  while  it  was  in  my  power  to  do  so.  I  feel 
a  great  satisfaction,  Sefior  Bellegarde,  to  have  arranged  with 
you  the  contract  for  the  canalization  of  the  river,  and  to  have 
defended  it.  With  that  great  work  which  will  without  doubt  en- 
rich the  country,  a  great  step  toward  definite  pacification  has 
been  taken." 

"  My  gratitude,  General,"  answered  the  Count,  "  is  due  to 
you,  for  the  faith  which  you  have  consistently  shown  in  me, 
and  the  kindness  you  have  displayed  at  the  same  time,  is  in- 
deed very  great.  No  doubt  the  country,  performing  an  act  of 
justice  and  also  in  its  own  interest,  will  recall  you  soon  to 
preside  once  more  over  its  destinies." 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,  I  do  not  wish  it,  I  do  not,  indeed.  I  must 
think  solely  of  how  to  prepare  myself  to  die  well.  I  feel  very 
old." 

A  woman  who  did  messenger  service  for  the  telegraph  op- 


A  MASQUERADE  BALL  311 

erator,  came  panting  with  a  telegram  for  Bellegarde.  It  was 
opened.  "It  is  the  news,"  said"  Bellegarde,  after  reading  it, 
"  that  the  first  large  ship,  the  Colombia,  will  to-morrow  enter 
by  way  of  Bocas  de  Ceniza,  as  we  had  promised." 

"  Praised  be  God  from  the  bottom  of  my  soul,"  exclaimed 
Ronderos,  his  eyes  moist  with  emotion,  and  shaking  hands  with 
the  Count. 

"  Besides,"  he  continued,  "  there  is  more  news  which  will 
sound  pleasant  in  the  ears  of  the  shareholders.  The  enter- 
prise has  awakened  real  enthusiasm.  The  shares  of  one  pound 
each  are  now  being  quoted  at  four  pounds  on  the  London  Ex- 
change. A  great  amount  of  capital  is  being  offered  to  me 
for  new  enterprises.  I  feel  profoundly  sorry  to  be  obliged 
to  leave  the  country  to-morrow." 

"  And  is  there  no  way  of  inducing  you  to  stay  a  while  longer, 
my  friend?  "  exclaimed  General  Ronderos. 

"  Impossible.  To-morrow  it  will  be  precisely  a  year,  you 
gentlemen  may  recollect,  since  I  was  notified  that  my  group 
was  busy  with  the  idea  of  canalizing  the  Seine  and  making 
Paris  a  sea  port.  Thereupon  I  presented  my  plans  and  projects 
to  a  commission  studying  the  matter.  The  commission  has  ap- 
proved them,  and  the  French  parliament  is  going  to  take  them 
now  into  consideration.  It  is  absolutely  necessary  for  me  to 
present  myself  in  person.  I  hope,  however,  to  return  to  Colom- 
bia very  soon,  since  Colombia  is  to  me  the  most  attractive  of 
all  countries  in  America.  During  my  absence  Alejandro  and 
Roberto  will  remain  in  charge  of  the  whole  enterprise.  And 
they  will  advance  things,  I  have  no  doubt." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Alejandro  to  Roberto  in  an  aside,  "  that 
your  fears  and  hesitations  have  by  now  disappeared.  Your 
32,000  shares  are  worth  128,000  pounds  sterling  by  this  time. 
That  is  quite  a  little  fortune,  eh?  You  can  now  redeem  your 
house,  as  well  as  the  two  haciendas,  leaving  you  a  good-sized 
reserve." 

"  But  I  have  not  so  far,  and  I  do  not  now  intend  to  sell  these 
shares.  It  would  be  a  breach  of  good  faith." 

They  arrived  on  the  heights.  Beyond  the  rough  hillside 
there  stretched  a  vast  plain  of  marshy  pastures.  They  put 
foot  on  ground,  approached  the  edge  of  the  mountain  side,  and 
regarded  the  far  view  silently. 


312  PAX 

"  Rather  rare,  this,  I  think,  Count,  is  it  not,"  said  the  Gen- 
eral, "this  lagoon  at  such  a  height?  There  is  a  certain  re- 
semblance to  some  of  the  Swiss  lakes." 

A  perfect  calm  enwrapped  the  entire  landscape.  The  lake 
reflected  the  granite  peaks  of  the  neighboring  steep  mountains, 
the  immense  back  of  the  Guayacundo,  which  rose  up  almost 
sheer  from  the  water's  edge  and  was  portrayed  in  all  its  de- 
tails with  photographic  correctness,  while  the  gaze  of  the  be- 
holder was  unable  to  distinguish  where  the  reality  ended  and 
its  reflection  began.  At  the  bottom  a  bluish  light  prevailed 
through  which  the  clouds  appeared  to  sail  through  a  wavering 
luminous  opening  in  the  center  of  the  smooth  surface.  An 
eagle,  master  of  these  lonesome  spots,  floated  and  balanced  him- 
self with  his  immovable  widespread  wings.  The  wind  then 
crumpled  the  level  surface  of  the  water,  stirring  slowly  the 
heavy  fluid,  and  when  the  latter  again  flattened  out,  it  took  on 
glints  of  mother-of-pearl,  of  steel.  There  was  a  big  patch  of 
rushes  rising  out  of  the  calm  water,  and  the  mirroring  flood 
was  divided  by  two  long  lines  that  were  breaking  up,  and 
then  the  lake  presented  an  aspect  both  delightful  and  sinister. 
The  breeze  set  in  again,  the  splash  of  a  wave  larger  and  deeper 
than  the  others  was  heard.  .  .  .  And  again  the  whole  scene 
was  enwrapped  in  the  most  profound  silence. 

Maraton,  the  dog,  had  dived  down  into  the  bed  of  rushes, 
scurrying  here  and  there  about  in  it,  but  sprang  suddenly  upon 
the  lush  grass  growing  there,  emitting  a  growl  of  rage. 

"  What  is  it,  Maraton  ?  What  is  troubling  you  ?  Have  you 
heard  some  of  Wagner's  music?" 

The  dog  came  forth.  Watching  the  direction  he  took,  they 
saw  upon  a  declivity,  on  top  of  a  rock,  a  rider  on  a  black 
horse. 

"  It  is  Socarraz,  the  scorpion,"  exclaimed  Chispas,  com- 
ing forth  suddenly,  revolver  in  hand. 

"  Leave  him,  leave  him,"  replied  Ronderos.  "  Let  us  ride 
down  to  the  village.  They  are  awaiting  us." 

When  they  arrived  there,  everybody  was  in  merry  humor  and 
full  of  enthusiasm.  There  were  dust  clouds  and  much  noise, 
the  jingle  of  harness,  ladies  and  gentlemen  galloping  along 
the  road,  following  the  path  down  the  hillside,  towards  the 
place  chosen  for  the  celebration. 


A  MASQUERADE  BALL  313 

The  whole  cavalcade,  mad  with  excitement  and  enjoyment, 
was  jamming  into  the  narrow  vale  of  El  Volador,  and  was  dash- 
ing up  and  down  the  dusty  highroad.  The  cobblestones  rang 
with  hoofbeats,  and  the  horses  on  hearing  the  patter  of  so 
many  animals  and  their  riders  on  the  stone  pavements  leading 
to  the  depths  below  where  the  river  was  roaring,  pointed  their 
ears,  and  pressed  closer  against  the  rocks  beside  the  path. 
The  rejoicing  went  on  increasing,  the  unrestrained  merriment 
grew  steadily,  because  down  there  in  the  lower  places  could 
already  be  discerned  the  spot  picked  out  for  the  festival,  with 
the  Union  Club,  the  numerous  tents  noticeable  in  their  snowy 
white,  and  the  girdle  around  it  all  formed  by  the  silvery  river, 
to  which  the  shadows  and  the  orange  plantations  afforded  a 
charming  contrast. 

There  was  a  transparent  atmosphere,  the  vivifying  sun  of 
the  tropics  brilliantly  poured  its  flood  of  light  upon  the  fronds 
of  the  palms,  and  gave  to  the  scarlet  petals  of  the  flowers  the 
glowing  appearance  of  rubies. 

And  as  the  cavalcade  descended  lower  and  lower  the  heat 
became  greater  and  Nature  more  lavish.  An  intense  well  being, 
a  palpitating  joy  seemed  at  the  same  time  to  penetrate  the 
veins  of  everybody,  and  some  of  the  general  rejoicing  was 
creeping  into  all  these  bodies  of  merry-makers,  injecting  a 
more  vigorous  sap  and  a  new  blood  into  them  all.  The  trees 
with  their  abundance  of  foliage  were  filled  with  this  magic  savor, 
as  well  as  all  hearts.  Approaching  the  river,  they  crossed 
now  the  bridge,  the  noise  all  the  while  deafening,  and  came 
out  on  a  plain  covered  with  fruit  trees;  there  the  Rio  Blanco 
and  the  Rio  Negro  join,  form  a  new  whole,  and  merge  their 
waters  amidst  the  rushing  thunder  of  their  waves. 

All  those  present,  come  from  everywhere,  are  in  an  uproar 
of  liberty  and  excitement,  singing,  laughing,  running  about  on 
the  plain,  making  the  horses  bathed  in  sweat  dance  on  the  velvet 
turf,  skirmish  about  in  lively  groups,  plucking  whole  hand- 
fuls  of  blossoming  flowers,  despoiling  the  bearing  trees  in  the 
orchard,  intoxicating  themselves  with  the  delicious  fragrance 
of  the  lemon-trees,  gathering  bunches  of  orange  blossoms,  and 
spilling  all  over  the  grass  the  gold  of  the  oranges.  The  savor 
rising  up  from  the  soil  itself  fills  the  lungs,  the  tropical  vigor 
rushes  to  the  head  and  face,  and  this,  together  with  the  merri- 


3  H  PAX 

ment  of  the  festivity  itself,  fires  all  pulses,  enshrouds  them  in 
a  vibrant  atmosphere,  so  that  the  fever  steals  into  the  arteries. 
After  a  time  the  excitement  of  this  fever  begins  to  breed 
fatigue,  the  tension  of  enthusiasm  relaxes,  the  greed  for  pleas- 
ure diminishes,  will  power  itself  deadens,  and  then  comes  a 
mist  of  stupor,  a  wave  of  languor,  and  melancholy  invades 
them  all,  takes  possession  of  them,  submerges  them  gently. 

Alcon,  with  Dolores  (now  his  betrothed),  on  his  arm,  is 
going  from  group  to  group  receiving  felicitations  and  well- 
wishes;  Dona  Aura  does  not  enjoy  herself,  but  Montellano 
is  gorged  with  satisfaction  and  pride. 

"  Doctor  Alcon,  you  succeed  in  everything." 

"  Mr.  Minister,  what  a  fine  couple  you  and  your  betrothed 
make!  " 

"  Your  honor  has  obtained  a  success  more  decisive  than  your 
literary  and  political  ones." 

"  Dolores,  accept  my  wishes  for  your  happiness!  I  think  it 
is  assured." 

And  she,  leaning  with  abandon  on  the  arm  of  her  future 
husband,  let  herself  be  led  on  by  him,  receiving  congratula- 
tions and  good  wishes,  walking  with  a  firm  step,  with  a  mien 
of  resolution,  with  a  shining,  resolute  glance. 

Alcon,  on  his  part,  always  stiff,  accepted  this  homage  cere- 
moniously, allowed  people  to  heap  flattering  remarks  and  felici- 
tations on  him,  and  as  if  at  his  desk  in  the  department,  answered 
them  with  a  slight  bend  of  the  head,  murmured  evasive  replies, 
vague  words,  smiled  disdainfully,  threw  his  head  back,  made 
gestures  of  assertive  cheerfulness,  and  from  time  to  time  directed 
over  his  eyeglasses,  at  Roberto,  haughty  glances  full  of  insolence 
and  cunning. 

Gacharnah  walked  about  with  his  paunch  triumphantly,  keep- 
ing a  whole  squadron  of  servants  on  the  run,  offering  goblets 
of  champagne,  sandwiches,  mountains  of  biscuits;  he  himself 
would  uncork  the  bottles,  would  carry  about  in  his  chubby 
hands,  while  performing  miracles  of  equilibrium,  piles  of  plates, 
ice-cream  in  cups,  and  desserts.  He  felt  upon  his  shoulders 
the  responsibility  of  the  mission  entrusted  to  him  by  Alejandro 
and  Roberto,  and  priding  himself  on  his  fine  taste,  his  activity, 
his  culinary  knowledge,  would  sweep  into  the  tents,  help  the 
attendants  carve  the  turkeys  and  slice  the  hams,  denouncing 


A  MASQUERADE  BALL  315 

the  chef's  qualifications  as  a  cook.  And  when  everything 
seemed  in  running  order,  he  would  mingle  with  the  guests, 
approach  a  table  piled  high  with  bottles  and  flasks,  seize 
liquors  and  table  ingredients,  pour  the  drink  out  into  two  tall 
glasses,  and  would,  bowing  gracefully,  offer  to  the  guests  his 
latest  concoction,  a  refreshing  beverage,  pink  and  foaming, 
the  "  Montellano  cocktail." 

Night  came,  and  the  greensward  was  deserted,  while  the  in- 
vited assembly  began  to  prepare  for  the  masquerade  ball.  Be- 
tween the  darkening  foliage  became  visible  balls  of  colored 
light,  and  next  the  level  space  was  crossed  by  long  rosaries  of 
glowing  color.  From  the  big  tent  which  had  been  prepared  for 
the  ball,  there  issued  vivid  streams  of  light. 

Then  the  orchestra  burst  into  its  enlivening  strains.  And  the 
waves  of  the  river,  the  waves  of  light  and  the  waves  of  music 
flowed  and  merged  into  one  blend  of  harmonies,  bursting  out 
and  reflected  by  the  rocks  all  around. 

At  last  the  longed-for  hour  arrives.  The  maskers  have  in- 
vaded the  central  hall  of  the  club,  as  well  as  the  gardens.  All 
epochs  are  represented,  and  all  colors.  Grenadiers  of  the  impe- 
rial guard,  Indians,  Japanese,  dominoes,  the  Druids  walk  arm 
in  arm  with  common  wenches.  Philip  II  meets  Cleopatra,  and 
the  stately  monarch  at  once  breaks  out  in  a  fit  of  hearty  laugh- 
ter. The  Three  Musketeers  have  taken  hold  of  three  old  women 
painted  up  as  papal  adherents.  Mephistopheles  bows  and  takes 
off  his  red  beretta,  in  order  to  salute  a  nun  in  a  white  frock. 

In  a  nook  of  the  tent  a  Spanish  hidalgo  in  surcoat  and  pow- 
dered wig  is  whispering  to  a  knight  in  full  armor,  his  vizier 
closed  and  the  plumes  of  his  steel  helmet  erect  and  waving. 

"  Look  at  Carmen,  she  has  made  an  Andalusian  sovereign  of 
herself.  Just  notice  how  that  Scotchman,  that  Edgar,  is  fol- 
lowing her,  jealous  and  in  love  with  her.  .  .  .  My,  my,  how  the 
Garter  with  its  diamond  ribbon  contrasts  finely  in  the  costume 
of  the  minister  with  the  silken  stockings !  " 

The  hours  pass,  the  new  year  draws  near.  The  old  year  is 
going  amidst  gay  lovemaking  and  bright  smiles,  amidst  flowers 
and  happiness,  amidst  the  maddening  mazes  of  the  dance,  and 
the  shouts  of  reveling. 

The  clamors  of  a  waltz  are  stilled,  and  a  chorus  of  voices, 
accompanied  by  the  chords  of  the  mandolin,  is  intoning  a  bam- 


316  PAX 

buco.  And  the  couples  and  beauties  approach  and  listen  to  that 
song  so  unrestrained  in  its  rhythms,  so  capricious  and  audacious 
in  its  tune,  so  monotonous  and  sad,  so  simple  and  spontaneous, 
like  the  murmur  of  the  river  itself,  like  the  breathing  of  the 
dawn,  like  the  splendor  of  the  birds,  like  all  the  harmonies  of 
Nature.  But  in  spite  of  being  one  of  Nature's  own  cries,  in 
spite  of  its  simplicity,  it  takes  possession  of  the  soul,  softens  it, 
fills  it  with  melancholy  and  sadness,  dares  to  say  those  things 
which  lips  would  not  dare  to  frame,  breeds  confidence,  encour- 
ages the  heart  to  begin  a  love  dialogue,  .  .  .  mute,  eloquent, 
bold. 

"  Let  us  dance  the  bambuco!  " 

"  Somebody  give  us  the  bambuco!  " 

All  the  young  couples,  however,  begged  to  be  excused,  plead- 
ing that  none  of  them  knew  how  to  perform  it.  Nobody  at  all 
ventured  to  walk  up  to  the  center  of  the  hall. 

"  Dolores!     Let  Dolores  dance  it!  " 

Alcon,  making  use  of  his  double  authority  as  minister  and 
fiance,  approached  her,  took  her  arm,  and  begged  her  to  yield  to 
the  general  request.  Then  she  tore  her  mask  off  her  face,  threw 
it  aside,  went  to  the  center,  and  waited.  Everybody  was  looking 
for  a  young  partner  for  her,  a  partner  worthy  of  her,  but  no  one 
appeared  in  the  center  of  the  space.  Then  voices  were  raised. 

"  Roberto !     Roberto !     Let  Roberto  dance !  " 

His  friends,  opening  their  ranks,  discovered  him,  took  him  by 
the  arm,  and  pushed  him  into  the  center.  He  and  she,  distrust- 
ful, like  fugitives,  gazed  mutely  at  each  other  from  afar,  each 
avoiding  the  other's  eyes. 

Eternal  story  of  love, 
Law  that  Nature's  self  ordains: 
Woman    follows    him    who    flees, 
And  flees  from  him  who  follows. 

The  strumming  of  the  guitars  is  now  heard,  and  the  mandolins 
twang  their  plaintive  chords,  like  sobs  cut  short,  like  sighs  of 
passion  or  supplications,  and  together  these  instruments  are 
weaving  with  their  chords  a  simple,  touching  melody,  stammer- 
ing its  thrilling  meaning,  but  a  melody  which  soon  changes,  as- 
suming penetrating  vibrations,  accents  filled  with  the  breath  of 
ardent  love,  and  ending  in  a  fiery  declaration.  And  then  this 


A  MASQUERADE  BALL  317 

melody,  as  though  harking  back  to  its  humble  beginnings,  re- 
turns to  the  first  bars,  enmeshes  itself  once  more,  like  a  filament 
in  network,  enwrapping  all  hearts,  spurring  them  on,  and  con- 
founding all  in  one  single  palpitation,  in  one  sole  shudder  and 
swoon. 

Dolores  and  Roberto,  in  the  midst  of  all  this  noise  and  excite- 
ment, looked  at  each  other  only  sidewise  and  stealthily.  She  in 
her  Carmen  costume,  vigorous,  animated  by  the  music,  assuming 
the  attitude  of  a  woman  of  the  people,  full  of  natural  grace  and 
verve,  arrogant  and  insolent.  She  threw  away  her  velvet  cape, 
and  then,  slender  and  agile,  advanced  to  the  sound  of  the  bam- 
buco,  of  that  song  which  starts  in  a  slow  measure,  languid  and 
listless,  but  which  goes  on  gathering  life  and  warmth.  He  on 
his  part  crossed  the  hall,  reaching  his  partner,  kneeling  down 
and  rising  again,  receding,  then  searching  for  her,  while  she  fol- 
lowed him,  avoided  him,  fled,  and  both  maintained  this  pursuit, 
this  flight,  forming  circles,  weaving  figures  in  the  dance,  and 
next  swiftly  breaking  them  up  again,  always  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  a  music  that  undulates,  that  sings  and  weeps,  that 
threatens  and  menaces.  And  the  rhythm  steadily  quickens,  is 
agitated  by  feverish  shocks;  the  mandolins  give  more  of  an  im- 
ploring and  thrilling  expression  to  their  plaints  and  sobs.  The 
musical  phrase  of  the  flutes  becomes  precipitate,  shrill,  and 
dominating. 

A  mysterious  fluid  began  to  run  through  the  veins  of  the  spec- 
tators, who  applauded  with  frenzy,  and  who  divined  in  the  soul 
of  the  young  couple  a  tender  drama  developing  itself.  They, 
the  two  dancers,  while  the  dance  proceeded  with  its  pretty 
curves,  gave  themselves  up  to  the  intoxication  of  the  moment. 
They  were  afraid  to  meet  and  touch  during  its  windings,  they 
avoided  a  direct  gaze  at  one  another,  and  they  were  thinking  of 
fate  that  always  brought  them  in  touch  again,  forced  them  to 
look  for  each  other,  to  persecute  each  other,  imitating  in  the 
dance  itself  all  the  gestures,  all  the  fires  of  a  passion  which  in- 
sinuates itself,  which  flees  and  attracts,  which  conquers  while 
fleeing,  and  at  last,  longing  for  each  other,  inflamed  and  dazzled 
by  their  own  feelings,  as  though  pushed  on  by  an  irresistible 
force,  they  approach,  look  without  reserve,  smile,  and  then 
stretch  out  their  hands,  trembling  in  every  limb.  .  .  . 

"  New  Year's !     New  Year's !  " 


318  PAX 

All  the  slender  tall  goblets  in  which  the  froth  of  the  cham- 
pagne is  running  over,  are  raised  in  the  hands  of  the  company. 
The  orchestra  bursts  out  in  a  triumphal  hymn  saluting  the  new 
year. 

"  New  Year's,  New  Year's!  " 

Shouts  are  suddenly  heard  in  the  garden.  Shouts  and  rough 
voices  again.  Then  one  .  .  .  two  .  .  .  three  shots. 

"  General  Ronderos !"  .  .  . 

"Here!     Here!" 

Roberto  and  Alejandro  are  outside  in  a  flash,  and  see  at  some 
distance,  by  the  light  of  the  Japanese  lanterns,  a  group  of  men  in 
violent  motion.  They  reach  the  point.  They  see  General  Ron- 
deros, who  is  assisted  by  Chispas  and  Casanova,  defending  his 
life  against  four  horsemen.  In  the  half  light  Roberto  recog- 
nizes the  black  horse  of  Socarraz.  Chispas  and  Casanova  point 
their  revolvers  again  and  fire  upon  their  aggressors.  The  horse 
of  Socarraz,  wounded,  begins  to  rise  on  its  haunches,  makes  its 
escape  with  great  bounds,  takes  the  road  leading  up  the  hillside, 
and  is  lost  in  the  dark.  The  other  riders  follow  him. 

"  What's  the  matter,  General?  " 

"  An  attack  upon  me.  ...  I  was  in  the  gardens,  together 
with  the  Count.  .  .  ." 

"  They  wanted  to  carry  off  my  General,"  says  Chispas. 

* '  General  Ronderos,  General  Ronderos!"  shouted  the  tele- 
graph operator,  coming  up  at  a  run  with  a  telegram  in  her  hand. 
The  General  reads: 

"Most  Urgent! 

"  General    Ronderos. —  In    Ubaque,    or    wherever    he    may    be    found. 

"  A  revolution  has  broken  out  in  the  entire  Republic.  They  com- 
municate with  the  Northern  frontier.  Tubalcain  Cardoso  proclaimed 
generalissimus  and  highest  chief.  Landaburo  at  the  front  with  forces. 
Exposito  Montes  and  Nero  Jaspe  declare  themselves  provisional  presi- 
dent in  Honda.  Polanco  proclaimed  on  the  Coast.  Terenico  Nichols  in 
Ambalema.  Government  hopes  your  patriotism  will  charge  itself  with 
command  as  chief  of  the  constitutional  army. 

"  THE  PRESIDENT,   SANMARTIN." 

At  that  moment  there  came  the  report  of  a  shot  from  the  steep 
rocks  by  the  river  bed,  and  with  it  a  wild  voice  shouting: 
"  Long  live  the  Revolution !  " 
There  was  everywhere  confusion,  dismay,  sobs.     Dona  Aura 


A  MASQUERADE  BALL  319 

shrieked,  and  tore  the  telegram  out  of  the  hands  of  General 
Ronderos. 

"Tubalcain!  .  .  .  My  husband!  ...  He  has  come  to  life 
again.  ...  A  hero!  " 

Between  hysterical  convulsions  of  laughter  and  tears  she  was 
taken  to  the  tent  of  Gacharnah,  and  her  friends  surrounded  her 
without  knowing  whether  they  ought  to  congratulate  her  or  to 
show  her  the  cold  shoulder.  Gacharnah,  from  among  the 
amazed  crowd,  approached  the  poetess  and,  radiant  with  joy, 
drenched  his  dainty  linen  handkerchief  with  perfume,  and  then 
applied  it  to  the  nostrils  of  Dona  Aura : 

"  It  is  the  choicest  scent  of  Houbigant's,"  he  exclaimed;  "  it 
is  Celestial  Extra,"  and  he  smiled  proudly. 

Montellano  came  also,  frowned,  made  a  motion  as  though  in 
protest  against  these  proceedings.  With  his  big  voice  he  domi- 
nated the  general  chorus  of  fright,  but  a  moment  after  was  show- 
ing a  flash  of  joy  in  his  eagle  eyes  because  of  the  reappearance 
of  Cardoso.  Then  he  went  in  search  of  Alcon  and  found  him 
already  on  horseback,  ready  to  start  for  the  Capital  with  his 
body  of  employees. 

"  Dear  Alcon,  Mr.  Minister,  what  has  happened  just  now  to 
me,  as  husband  of  the  wife  of  a  revolutionary,  might  compro- 
mise me  much.  But  you  know,  I  am  nowise  responsible  for 
that.  Our  arrangement  remains  fixed  as  before  .  .  .  and  that 
is  sufficient." 

Meanwhile  the  servants,  in  the  midst  of  the  terror  and  sur- 
prise, were  busy  tearing  from  the  bushes  and  plants  and  trees 
the  still  burning  Japanese  lanterns  to  light  up  the  path  on  their 
flight.  The  masked  guests,  on  the  other  hand,  with  the  blind 
impetus  to  save  themselves  at  any  cost,  in  the  disarray  of  a  des- 
perate flight,  in  the  confusion  of  the  moment,  mounted,  after 
seizing  on  some  horse,  and  departed  with  the  utmost  haste,  their 
hoarse  and  ill-controlled  voices  betraying  despair  and  affright, 
and  in  the  mists  outside  they  were  scarcely  able  to  recognize  one 
another.  They  fled  from  the  group  of  buildings,  crossed  the 
bridge  with  shouts,  took  the  road  to  El  Volador,  passed  hurriedly 
through  the  streets  of  Ubaque,  and  made  for  the  route  leading  to 
the  Capital,  with  continual  expressions  of  amazement,  turning 
their  heads  to  look  back,  believing  that  at  every  instant  there 
:"Mght  appear  guerrilla  bands  amidst  the  rocks,  in  the  narrow 


320  PAX 

mountain  paths,  on  the  brambly  wastes.  Trying  to  find  the  way 
in  the  obscurity,  but  unable  to  make  out  anything,  clutching  the 
withers  of  their  animals  like  madmen,  passing  the  narrow 
bridges  which  shook  and  bent  under  the  great  load,  they  tot- 
tered along  the  mountain  paths  with  trembling  limbs,  descended 
across  the  deep  ditches  and  clefts,  stumbling  and  falling, 
climbed  the  narrow  paths  up  and  down  the  hillside,  and  only 
by  a  miracle  escaped  coming  to  an  early  end  by  falling  over 
precipices. 

Hours  later,  there  might  still  have  been  remarked  the  strange 
sight  of  troupes  of  these  mummers  from  the  masquerade,  attired 
fantastically,  and  with  all  the  appearance  of  a  procession  of 
demented  and  mortally  frightened  beings,  fighting  their  way 
homewards  across  the  stony  parts  of  the  panorama,  in  the  bleak 
light  of  dawn,  making  the  impression,  from  a  distance,  of  ca- 
pricious silhouettes,  hastening  towards  the  Capital,  looking  at 
the  same  time  sinister  and  laughable,  deadly  tired  and  trembling 
under  their  brilliant  costumes  of  velvet,  satin  and  tinsel,  the 
colors  contrasting  forcibly  with  the  pale,  disheveled  appearance 
of  their  wearers,  in  whose  foces  could  be  read  lack  of  sleep, 
carking  care,  disenchantment  and  fatigue. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

ADVANTAGES   OF    WAR 

DECREE  NUMBER  3  OF  THE  1st  OF  JANUARY.  .  .  . 

By  which  Public  Order  is  declared  disturbed  within  the  whole  Republic. 
The  President  of  the  Republic,   making  use  of  the  powers  conferred 
upon   him   by   Article    121    of   the   Constitution,   and  after   hearing   the 
opinion  of  the  Council  of  State,  and 

Considering 

1.  That  many  Revolutionaries  in  the  close  neighborhood  of  the  ter- 
ritory of  Venezuela  and  well-known  for  their  enmity  to  the  institutions 
and  the  Government  of  Colombia,   amongst  them  the  so-called  General 
Tubalcain    Cardoso,    have    approached    with    Revolutionary    forces    the 
frontiers  of  this  Republic. 

2.  That  at  the  same   time   the   Government   is  receiving  news   from 
divers  parts  of  the  Republic  from  which  it  appears  that  a  general  Revo- 
lution has  broken  out; 


ADVANTAGES  OF  WAR  321 

3.  That  important  press  organs  in  this  Capital  and  particularly  La 
Integridad,^  La  Revaluation,   and  El  Escorpion,  have  for  a   long  time 
been  exciting  the  population  to  rebellion; 

4.  That   the   Government  of  the  Republic  cannot  remain   indifferent 
in  face  of  this  external  danger  and  of  a  civil  war  entirely  unjustifiable 
and  in  any  case  certain  to  cause  ruin  and  desolation  to  the  country, 
for  which  reason  it   is  his  duty,   in   conformity  with  the   Constitution 
and  the  Laws,  to   defend   it  and  to  defend  the  public  order,  while  it 
has  not   sufficed   for  that  purpose   to   show   a  conciliatory   conduct   on 
the  part  of  the  Government  nor  to  propose  a  reduction  of  the  size  of 
the   public  forces,  nor  to  respect  scrupulously  the  rights  of  everybody 
and  to  give  to  the  press  of  the  opposition  the  most  complete  liberty  in 
its  criticism  of  the  actual  Administration, 

Decrees: 

Article  One.  Public  Order  is  declared  disturbed  within  the  whole 
Republic,  the  territory  of  which  is  declared  in  a  state  of  siege. 

The  Governors  of  the  Departments  are  hereby  invested  with  the  pre- 
rogatives of  civil  and  military  chiefs. 
To  be  communicated  and  published. 
Given  in  Bogota.  ...  F.  DE  P.  SANMARTIN. 

The  Minister  of  State:  Esteban  Torralba.  The  Minister  of  Foreign 
Affairs,  Nabuco  Benavides.  The  Minister  of  Finance,  in  charge  of  the 
Department  of  War,  Melchor  Alcon.  .  .  .  The  Minister  of  Public  In- 
struction, Max.  Ovalle. 

AMAZED  people  were  massed  at  the  corners  of  the  streets  read- 
ing this  decree.  And  following  this,  with  the  swiftness  habitual 
in  such  cases,  another  poster  was  being  affixed  beside  the  above, 
reading : 

DECREE  NUMBER  3  OP  THE  1st  OF  JANUARY.  .  .  . 

By  which  the  functions  of  the  civil  and  military  chiefs  are  determined. 
The  President  of  the  Republic. 

In  view  of  Articles  61  and  121  of  the  Constitution, 

Decrees: 

Article  1.  The  Governors,  in  their  character  of  civil  and  military 
chiefs,  are  herewith  clothed  with  the  following  powers: 

1.  To   organize   the  military   forces  required   for  the  reestablishment 
of  order. 

2.  To  carry  out  the  expropriations  and  forced  loans  demanded  by  the 
circumstances. 

In  the  premises  of  the  war  department  meanwhile  all  sorts 
of  people  are  invading  the  passages,  the  offices,  and  come  and  go 
in  turbulent  groups,  shout,  call  to  each  other,  strut  around,  and 
all  with  the  same  disorder  and  anxiety  which  would  be  shown  in 


PAX 

case  of  a  big  fire.  New  faces  are  to  be  seen  in  which  can  be 
read  the  fear,  the  curiosity,  the  joy,  the  dissimulation,  the  impor- 
tance which  the  place  and  time  inspire.  There  are  uniforms, 
red  and  blue  and  green  ones,  very  recently  donned  or  resurrected. 
Voices  used  to  command  are  to  be  heard,  with  interjections, 
curses,  impatient  grumblings.  And  meanwhile,  the  clerks  with- 
out interrupting  their  work  are  bowed  over  their  desks,  making 
flourishes  with  their  pens,  copying  orders,  notes,  telegrams,  deaf 
to  all  the  uproar  that  is  going  on  all  around  them. 

The  door  which  communicates  with  the  office  of  the  assistant 
secretary  is  slamming  every  minute  with  the  incessant  passing 
through  of  section  chiefs,  of  a  thousand  clerks  and  employees,  of 
military  men  who  are  coming  to  get  the  required  signatures  for 
passports,  pay  checks,  railroad  passes,  permits  for  night  service, 
etc.  And  the  assistant  secretary,  after  a  rapid  glance  at  these 
papers,  without  reading  them,  goes  on  signing  and  signing,  with 
pain  in  his  shoulder  and  his  arm,  dazed,  tired  out  by  the  inces- 
sant tumult,  by  the  deafening  roar  of  voices,  by  the  rush  and 
fuss  in  the  adjoining  offices,  and  by  the  click  of  the  telegraph 
apparatus  installed  there,  which  with  its  desperate  tick-tack, 
seemingly  restless  and  unappeasable,  makes  every  nerve  tingle, 
precisely  like  the  whole  country,  which  is  in  a  state  of  high 
fever. 

In  steps  a  priest,  correct,  tall,  ruddy,  blue  eyes,  military  car- 
riage, tempered  with  modesty. 

"  I  am  Father  Aragon,"  he  says,  bowing  politely  to  the  assis- 
tant secretary,  "  and  chaplain  of  the  Grenadiers  that  march 
away  this  afternoon.  I  came  to  get  my  commission  papers." 

He  takes  his  papers  and  folds  them  up  neatly,  and  at  the  door 
he  meets  Karlonoff  (Colonel  of  bridges  and  highroads,  technical 
adviser  of  the  department,  first  assistant  secretary,  etc.),  who 
brings  in  his  pocket  a  resolution  by  which  every  soldier  must 
carry  in  his  knapsack  "  the  golden  book  of  the  Colombian  sol- 
dier," which  has  been  written  by  this  same  Karlonoff  for  the 
"  use  of  the  three  arms."  .  .  . 

At  the  same  instant,  too,  there  enters  Sanchez  de  Peiianegra 
to  offer  an  invention  of  his  which  for  reasons  of  notorious  injus- 
tice had  not  received  the  endorsement  of  the  two  chambers, 
namely,  "  the  gun  without  repercussion,"  and  within  a  few  mo- 
ments there  has  developed,  augmenting  the  existing  turmoil,  an 


ADVANTAGES  OF  WAR  323 

interminable  discussion,  full  of  technical  terms,  between  these 
two  experts: 

"  It  must  be  remembered  that  the  distance  from  the  bore  to 
the  breech  is  almost  the  same  as  from  the  touchhole  to  the  cir- 
cumference." 

"  I  don't  deny  it,"  interrupts  Sanchez  de  Penanegra,  after  a 
violent  fit  of  coughing,  and  holding  up  his  hand  to  make 
Karlonoff  understand  that  he  wishes  to  finish  what  he  has  to  say, 
"  but  if  we  consider  that  the  space  between  the  lock  communi- 
cates with  the  bore,  etc." 

He  was  rendered  speechless  once  more  by  another  terrific  at- 
tack of  his  cough,  and  half-dead,  tears  running  out  of  his  eyes, 
stammering,  he  nevertheless  continued  the  'discussion,  and  he 
and  the  technical  adviser  of  the  department  retreated,  amidst 
waves  upon  waves  of  people,  from  one  office  to  another,  explain- 
ing their  different  theories. 

"  I  want,  above  all,  first  the  guns,"  at  last  concludes  the 
Colonel  of  the  bridges  and  highways,  locking  himself  up  in  his 
private  office,  and  without  giving  the  inventor  a  chance  of  fol- 
lowing him  there.  "  The  latest  invention,  the  latest  patent  is 
spoken  of  in  the  Military  Review  of  Tokio.  It  is  the  100  Gun, 
the  big  Yamagata." 

Behind  a  door  guarded  by  two  sentinels  and  locked  at  double 
turn,  Minister  Alcon  is  attending  to  business.  He  is  benumbed 
by  his  sleepless  night,  still  quite  disabled  by  the  frightful  trip 
through  the  night,  by  the  terror  of  his  fellow  travelers,  and  some- 
what dazed  by  the  recent  events  which,  he  begins  to  think,  have 
perhaps  gone  a  trifle  farther  than  he  had  foreseen. 

Gacharnah,  fresh,  rosy  of  complexion,  with  an  air  of  total 
satisfaction,  his  paunch  still  in  triumphant  evidence,  in  his  but- 
tonhole wearing  a  faded  chrysanthemum,  is  seated  right  in  front, 
his  limbs  elegantly  displayed  upon  a  Louis  XVI  sofa  with  gilt 
and  carved  frame. 

"  My  dear  Doctor  Alcon,"  he  says,  "  the  cloth  is  ready,  in 
agreement  with  our  understanding,  sufficient  for  20,000  outfits, 
Edwards  type  .  .  .  there  is  nothing  to  beat  it  in  the  whole 
place." 

There  came  a  smart  rap  at  the  door  leading  into  the  passage- 
way, evidently  by  a  person  of  importance. 

"  It  is  I,  the  technical  adviser,"  said  the  voice. 


324  PAX 

They  withdrew  the  bolt  and  turned  the  key. 

"  It  is  indispensable  to  urge  at  once,"  Karlonoff  said,  after 
having  locked  the  door  again,  "  urge  by  cable  the  instant  remit- 
tance of  those  10,000  rifles  with  their  munition,  five  million  car- 
tridges, and  furthermore  as  a  specialty  of  the  first  magnitude, 
those  big  guns  for  the  Grenadiers;  these  guns  are  the  last  word 
of  modern  science,  and  of  artillery:  the  100  cannon,  long  Yama- 
gata." 

"  I  will  take  charge  of  that,"  exclaimed  Gacharnah,  all  aglow 
with  happiness..  "  The  order  will  be  filled  and  the  goods  here 
before  another  sixty  days.  That  matter  is  settled." 

"  Yes,  friend,  that  may  be  considered  settled;  but  for  all  pur- 
chases of  this  kind,  remember,  it  is  necessary  that  the  other 
members  of  the  cabinet  empower  me  to  sign  a  document  which 
I  have  just  drawn  up." 

A  timid  knock  at  the  door.  Alcon  hurried  to  it,  and  with- 
out opening  took  a  paper  which  was  passed  to  him  through  the 
chink. 

"  Ah,  here  it  is,  just  what  you  want,"  said  Alcon. 

Gacharnah  read: 

DECREE  NUMBER  3  OF  THE  1st  OF  JANUARY.  .  .  . 

Concerning  the  formalities  to  be  complied  with  in  contracts  for  the 
supply  of  war  material  for  the  army. 
The  President  of  the  Republic, 

Considering: 

That  the  urgency  with  which  war  material  of  every  description  has 
to  be  obtained, —  and  also  those  objects  required  for  the  mobilization 
and  equipment  of  the  army, —  is  very  great,  and  that  it  is  difficult  and 
in  many  cases  not  feasible  to  effect  a  meeting  and  the  presence  of  all 
the  members  of  the  council  of  Ministers,  at  all  times  and  when  it  would 
be  necessary  for  the  previous  approval  of  said  contracts, 

Decree : 

Therefore,  those  contracts  which  in  amount  exceed  a  thousand  pesos, 
concluded  by  the  Minister  of  War,  are  to  be  excepted  from  the  aforemen- 
tioned formality,  and  shall  require  for  their  validity  solely  the  ap- 
proval of  the  said  minister.  .  .  . 

"  Very  well,  very  well !  "  exclaimed  Gacharnah,  while  he  burst 
into  a  sonorous  guffaw.  "  Then  will  your  honor  please  order 
the  disposition  regarding  the  cloth  we  spoke  of  as  was  sug- 
gested." 


ADVANTAGES  OF  WAR  325 

"  It  is  precisely  for  that  I  am  now  starting  the  big  storehouse 
under  the  directions  of  Gonzales  Mogollon,"  observed  Alcon, 
who  did  quickly  whatever  he  undertook  to  do.  "  As  regards  the 
arms  and  the  Yamagata  guns,  we  must  amend  the  contract." 

"  May  I  mention  once  more  the  vessel  of  which  I  have  pre- 
viously spoken  to  your  honor?  It  is  going  to  be  the  cruiser 
Alcon.  .  .  ." 

Alcon  frowned  slightly,  and  then  pursed  his  lips  in  the  minis- 
terial style.  .  .  . 

"  We  shall  see  ...  the  question  will  be  duly  considered  .  .  . 
we  must  not  unnecessarily  hasten  the  matter." 

And  while  Gacharnah  nevertheless  was  pressing,  there  were 
new  knocks  at  the  door. 

"  It  is  Doctor  Agiieros!  "  was  the  announcement  on  the  other 
side. 

The  Doctor  entered,  while  Gacharnah  went  out  to  send  off  his 
cable  relative  to  the  cargo  of  weapons. 

."  Although  we  are  adversaries,"  said  Doctor  Agiieros,  smil- 
ingly, "  here  I  come  with  a  philanthropic  project,  friend  Alcon. 
I  know  that  those  sectarians,  Ronderos  and  Company,  would 
oppose  this,  for  they  do  not  trust  me,  but  with  you  it  is  different. 
For  you  I  should  myself  vote  in  a  political  convention.  .  .  . 
Well,  friend  Doctor,  I  wanted  to  say  that  in  this  nice  little  war 
which  my  fellow  partizans  have  begun  in  defense  of  their  rights, 
much  blood  is  going  to  flow,  or  I  am  much  mistaken.  In  a 
word,  the  Republic  is  entering  on  a  new  era,  is  in  a  new  morbid 
state  .  .  .  and  the  crisis,"  he  said  this  smilingly,  "  might  end 
perhaps  in  the  complete  recovery  of  the  patient.  .  .  .  Mean- 
while, in  my  position  as  physician,  in  whose  eyes  there  are 
neither  friends  nor  foes,  but  merely  patients,  I  am  going  to  fulfil 
my  duty." 

And  he  was  silent  for  a  moment,  awaiting  the  effect  of  his 
words. 

"  Not  to  lose  time,"  he  then  proceeded,  "  here  I  have  the  whole 
project  of  organizing  the  ambulances.  Dona  Aura  de  Cardoso, 
who  is  so  much  of  a  patriot,  is  charged  with  the  use  of  a  thou- 
sand kilograms  of  lint  and  of  two  kilometers  of  gauze  bandages. 
I  will  sell  to  the  Government,  from  my  drugstore,  at  almost  cost 
price,  100,000  packages  of  hydrophilous  cotton  gauze." 

Alcon  received  the  paper  and  read: 


326  PAX 

Art.  4.  The  surgeon-in-chief  of  the  model  ambulance  is  to  receive  a 
compensation  equal  in  amount  to  that  of  a  general  of  division. 

Art.  5.  The  personnel  of  the  ambulance  will  proceed  automatically. 

"  Very  well.  .  .  .  Colonel  Sandoval  y  Sabogal,  will  you 
please  take  notice  of  this  decree  and  of  the  despatch  nominating 
Doctor  Agiieros." 

Overtopping  all  the  turmoil  outside  there  came  the  voice  of 
Gonzales  Mogollon. 

"  You  will  see,  your  honor,"  exclaimed  the  latter,  after  enter- 
ing and  closing  the  door  behind  him,  "  how  well  I  have  already 
organized  the  big  storehouse.  Here  I  bring  the  draft  of  the 
decree:  it  is  the  same  text  as  the  one  used  at  the  last  revolution." 

The  decree  concluded: 

Senor  Don  R.  Gonzalez  Mogollon,  director  of  the  army  storehouses,  will 
receive  the  same  emolument  as  a  brigadier  general,  so  far  as  fiscal  effects 
are  concerned. 

The  doorkeeper  announced  the  aide-de-camp  of  the  Presi- 
dent. Alcon  and  Karlonoff  were  left  alone,  and  the  door  was 
again  locked. 

"  I  bring,"  said  the  aide,  "  this  decree  relative  to  the  reor- 
ganization of  the  army,  and  am  handing  now,  with  a  paper 
bearing  the  signature  of  His  Excellency,  a  sketch  in  which  the 
President  asks  Doctor  Alcon  also  to  sign  this  decree  immedi- 
ately, for  reasons  of  great  urgency." 

Alcon  read  it  hastily,  signed  and  then  read  it  once  more 
leisurely : 

Decree  number  4  of  the  first  of  January  ...  by  which  an 
army  corps  is  created. 

The  President  of  the  Republic  orders : 

Art.  1.  To  be  organized  an  army  corps  for  operations  against  the  rebels 
in  the  center  of  the  Republic  and  along  the  Atlantic  coast. 

2.  Call  into  active  service  General-in-Chief  Pedro  Alcantara  Ronderos, 
and  appoint  him  chief  of  operations  and  chief  commander  of  the  forces 
which  constitute  said  army. 

3.  Confer  on  the  General  Alejandro  Borja  the  effectivity  of  that  grade. 
Summon  him  to  active  service,   in  appointing  him  chief  of  staff  of  the 
army  spoken  of  above. 

4.  Appoint   Colonel  Roberto  Avila  first  adjutant-general  of  the  chief 
commander,  to  whom  that  rank  and  post  is  confided. 

Art.  5.  Appoint  as  chaplain  of  the  army  the  priest  Doctor  Miranda. 


ADVANTAGES  OF  WAR  327 

Art.  6.  Confer  the  title  of  Brigadier-General  upon  Colonel  Rafael  Bor- 
rero,  and  appoint  him  chief  of  the  battalion  of  Grenadiers. 

Art.  7.  The  cavalry  squadrons  Lancers  of  the  Vanguard,  which  will 
form  the  Ronderos  column,  will  be  commanded  by  Colonel  Milan  Gil, 
and  the  battalion  First  of  Bogota  by  Colonel  Casanova. 

"  It  is  all  right,"  said  Alcon,  handing  him  the  decree  signed, 
and  in  a  resigned  attitude.  "  I  have  affixed  my  signature,  al- 
though there  is  here  somewhere  in  the  text  a  French  gerund. 

Military  music  was  heard  on  the  square,  bellicose  notes  which 
made  the  window  panes  rattle.  Alcon  and  Karlonoff  ran  to  the 
windows,  and  saw  that  the  battalion  of  grenadiers  began  to  file 
past  on  its  way  to  the  railway  station,  with  General  Borrero  at 
its  head. 

On  the  square,  which  was  crowded  with  people,  the  multitude 
began  to  raise  a  clamor,  and  this  mingled  with  the  strains  of 
the  military  band  and  the  clatter  of  the  horses. 

There  were  cries : 

"Long  live  the  Constitutional  army!  " 

"Long  life  to  it!" 

"Death  to-  it!  "  bellowed  a  number  of  other  voices,  raging 
wildly. 

A  great  tumult  arose  in  the  square,  a  terrific  scuffle  in  which 
umbrellas  and  walking  canes  played  a  great  part  as  weapons. 

Meanwhile  the  battalion  went  on  filing  past  in  a  compact 
column,  and  the  rifles  were  all  carried  at  the  same  height,  so 
that  as  the  men  marched  along  their  left  arms  all  described  the 
same  motion,  and  it  looked  almost  like  the  monotonous  oscilla- 
tion of  so  many  pendulums. 

The  square  went  on  filling  more  and  more,  being  now  a  black 
sea  of  the  merely  curious,  of  people  frightened,  surprised,  or 
inflamed  with  political  hatred. 

"Death  to  Tubalcain  Cardoso!  " 

"Long  life  to  him!" 

New  scuffles,  insults,  threats,  challenges.  Eyes  inflamed  with 
passion,  livid  faces,  clenched  fists,  hats  smashed,  canes  broken. 

"Long  life  to  the  veteran,  General  Borrero!"  somebody 
shouted  from  the  porch  of  the  Capitol. 

Borrero  did  not  turn  his  head,  but  his  horse  rose  proudly  on 
his  hind  feet,  as  though  proud  of  its  rider. 

There  was  a  great  throng  of  people  pushing  and  bustling 


328  PAX 

about  one  corner;   a  thousand  heads  stared  at  an  enormous 
poster  which  stated: 

"  The  Rebellion.  Bulletin  Number  1.  Cacota  de  la  Matanza,  Janu- 
ary 1.  ... 

To  President  Republic. 
Please  copy. 

Revolutionary  forces  numbering  5000,  commanded  by  so-called  General 
Tubalcain  Cardoso,  proclaimed  generalissimus,  attacked  garrison  frontier 
at  La  Chorrerra.  After  eight  hours  desperate  fighting,  they  abandoned 
camp,  leaving  1000  dead,  1200  wounded.  We  lament  irreparable  losses, 
but  still  follow  motto  '  Progress  and  Brotherhood.' 

Telegrapher,  BOLANOS." 

In  Alcon's  office  new  knocks  were  heard  against  the  doors. 
It  was  Gacharnah,  who  was  back  from  the  telegraph  bureau. 
Karlonoff  opened  the  door  for  him,  and  when  he  entered,  the 
noise  and  loud  gossip  of  the  adjoining  offices  could  be  heard 
from  afar.  He  still  wore  that  faded  flower  in  his  buttonhole, 
and  carried  a  whip  in  his  left  hand,  with  which  he  had  had  to 
fight  his  way  through  the  turbulent  masses  in  the  street.  A 
strong  perfume  preceded  him :  the  "  Celestial  "  with  which  his 
handkerchief  had  been  drenched: 

"  They  stink!  as  Petronius  would  say,  Seiior  Minister." 

Then  approaching  him  within  earshot,  and  stealthily  looking 
to  right  and  left,  not  to  be  overheard,  he  said  to  Alcon: 

"  I  conclude  from  the  fact  that  news  from  the  coast  does  not 
get  through  here,  that  the  coast  district  is  in  favor  of  the  Revo- 
lution and  obeys  Polanco,  who  is  the  ablest  leader  amongst  the 
revolutionists.  The  Government  needs  vessels  in  order  to  move 
their  troops  by  way  of  the  sea,  and  because  of  this  I  once  more 
repeat  my  offer  of  an  excellent  ship,  armed  for  war,  which  can 
be  in  Colombian  waters  within  a  very  short  time.  A  cablegram 
would  suffice.  Four  Armstrong  guns,  steel-clad,  fifteen  knots 
per  hour.  ...  It  could,  I  suppose,  be  called  the  cruiser  Alcon." 

"  All  right,  all  right,"  said  Alcon  in  a  languid  tone,  and 
yawning,  "  it's  true  we  need  it.  By  to-morrow  we  can  have 
concluded  the  bargain.  There  are  only  some  formalities  to  be 
attended  to." 

The  Minister  yawned  again,  and  by  contagion  Karlonoff  and 
Gacharnah  yawned  likewise. 

"  Sefior  Minister,  your  honor  is  getting  weak,"  said  Gacharnah 


ADVANTAGES  OF  WAR  329 

with  tender  solicitude.  "It  is  afternoon  already,  and  you  have 
taken  no  food  since  morning.  Will  you  permit  me  .  .  .  this  is 
on  my  personal  account  ...  we  shall  have  something  brought 
here  from  the  Sporting  Club.  .  .  .  Only  one  minute,  please." 

He  hurried  off,  diving  into  the  dense  multitude  outside  with 
his  rotund  paunch.  Doctor  Agiieros  profited  by  this  opportu- 
nity to  confer  with  Alcon,  and  observed  that  he  had  already  had 
the  medicines  taken  to  the  storehouse,  and  that  he  at  present  had 
come  to  get  an  order  for  payment,  and  also  to  assume  charge  of 
his  new  office  as  chief  of  the  Model  Ambulance. 

Alcon  had  the  registry  book  brought  to  him,  assumed  a  grave, 
solemn  expression,  and  getting  on  his  feet,  he  put  the  question 
to  the  Doctor: 

"  Do  you  swear  to  defend  the  Constitution  and  Laws  of  the 
Republic?" 

But  Agiieros,  with  a  perfectly  amiable  gesture,  broke  in,  pro- 
posing a  formula  somewhat  altering  the  wording: 

"  I  promise  to  fulfil  my  duty,  on  my  word  of  honor,  and  I 
think  that  the  noblest  and  the  principal  of  these  duties  is  to 
keep  the  revolutionaries  correctly  informed  as  to  the  move- 
ments of  the  Government." 

"  All  right,"  said  Doctor  Alcon,  seating  himself  again,  and 
feeling  satisfaction  at  the  fact  that  he  could  give  this  noted 
opposition  man  a  proof  of  his  toleration. 

There  was  a  noise  at  the  wall.  Karlonoff  ran  to  the  tele- 
phone. Agiieros  paid  close  attention,  trying  to  reconstruct  the 
dialogue  from  the  abrupt  phrases  he  listened  to.  Karlonoff  was 
gesticulating  as  though  he  were  making  attempts  to  convert  a 
rival. 

"  Whom  am  I  talking  with  ?  .  .  .  More  distinctly.  .  .  .  Sta- 
tion? .  .  .  What  station?  ...  of  the  railroad?  .  .  .  Yes,  yes, 
.  .  .  good.  .  .  .  Ready!  ...  I  say  that  I  am  ready!  .  .  . 
General  Borrero?  .  .  .  Good.  ...  At  this  very  time.  ...  I 
am  saying  that  at  this  very  time.  .  .  .  Urgent.  .  .  .  Forced 
march.  .  .  .  No,  sir.  .  .  .  Oh,  well  ...  if  that  is  the  way,  it 
is  all  right.  .  .  .  What?  The  key?  .  .  .  Certainly,  I  forgot. 
.  .  .  Take  the  key  ABC,  deducting  twenty  numbers.  .  .  .  Yes, 
twenty  numbers.  .  .  .  All  right,  then.  .  .  .  With  whom  you  are 
speaking?  .  .  .  With  Colonel  Karlonoff.  .  .  .  Yes,  yes,  yes. 
.  .  .  Thank  you!  ...  Good-by." 


330  PAX 

In  the  adjoining  office,  the  so-called  banner  room,  a  species 
of  archive  nearly  always  locked,  the  clatter  and  clicking  of 
plates,  dishes,  and  bottles  began  to  be  heard,  and  this  music 
sounded  very  pleasant  to  Alcon,  while  he  rapidly  scanned  a 
whole  bundle  of  telegrams  from  the  four  corners  of  the  whole 
Republic,  most  of  them  marked  "  very  urgent,"  in  which  the 
governors,  prefects,  alcaldes,  sent  news  regarding  flights  with 
revolutionary  forces  in  which  there  was  mention  of  thousands  of 
dead,  of  places  burned  down,  of  the  population  trampled  under- 
foot, of  wholesale  murder.  .  .  . 

Gacharnah,  who  had  had  a  magnificent  luncheon  carried 
over,  now  made  his  appearance,  half  opened  the  door  to  the 
office,  and  motioned  with  his  arms,  showing  the  table  set  and 
the  soup  already  smoking. 

"  Sefior  Minister,"  said  he  ingratiatingly,  with  the  manner  of 
a  hotel  manager  or  head  waiter. 

They  went  in,  and  Alcon,  Agiieros,  Karlonoff,  and  two  aides- 
de-camp  sat  down.  Three  soldiers  that  moment  came  in,  carry- 
ing more  dishes  and  viands.  Gacharnah  turned  and  turned 
about,  sometimes  seated,  again  dancing  about  behind  the  table. 
.  .  .  "  This  nice  little  white  wine,  Sefior  Minister?"  .  .  . 
"You  like  a  little  more  of  this  Burgundy?"  .  .  .  "Kidney 
a  la  Cardinal?  Yes,  I  myself  ordered  it." 

One  of  the  orderlies  placed  upon  the  table  a  stupendous  fowl, 
browned  most  deliciously  at  the  fire. 

"  It  is  fattened,  Sefior  Minister,  and  is  one  of  those  I  breed  on 
my  own  place,"  he  said,  and,  indeed,  the  appetizing  bird  spread 
a  most  titillating  aroma  of  truffles  —  a  novel  odor  in  that  atmos- 
phere where  the  smell  of  foolscap  and  legal  papers  had  usually 
prevailed. 

"  Allow  me  to  carve  this  bird,"  said  Gacharnah,  while  he 
shoved  his  shirt  cuffs  higher. 

"  No,  no,"  rejoined  Agiieros,  "  this  comes  under  the  head  of 
my  new  functions.  .  .  ." 

"  Let  us  see,  Doctor,"  put  in  Alcon,  and  bursting  out  in  one 
of  his  rare  fits  of  laughter,  which  so  closely  resembled  the  neigh- 
ing of  a  horse. 

"  Let  us  see  the  scalpel  of  the  Model  Ambulance  at  work!  " 

All  fastened  their  eyes  upon  the  physician,  who  with  gravity, 


ADVANTAGES  OF  WAR  331 

as  though  getting  ready  for  an  operation  of  the  greatest  delicacy 
and  requiring  the  highest  skill,  surrounded  by  a  circle  of  assist- 
ants, now  rolled  back  his  sleeves,  felt  of  the  edge  of  his  carving 
knife,  and  took  careful  note  of  the  right  point  and  where  to  pass 
the  knife  upon  the  surface  of  the  fowl,  just  as  if  he  were  tracing 
the  lines  of  the  operation  in  advance.  A  short  while  after,  in- 
stead of  a  bird,  he  had  on  the  carving  dish  a  heap  of  slices  that 
were  of  tempting  tenderness  and  delicate  fiber.  .  .  .  But  the 
aides-de-camp  would  not  try  these  dainties.  They  felt  a  cold 
shiver  run  down  their  spines  as  they  watched  that  implacable 
knife  cutting  with  diabolical  skill,  that  ambulance  chief  cutting 
deeply  into  the  flesh.  Karlonoff  admired,  but  remained  tran- 
quil. He  knew  that  in  his  position  as  Colonel  Inspector  of 
Bridges  and  Highways  he  would  not  have  to  leave  the  Capital, 
nor  to  trust  himself  to  the  good  graces  of  Agiieros.  Then  the 
company  sampled  the  beverages  most  extensively:  white  wines, 
red  wines,  darker  wines.  Merriment  was  universal.  At  the 
table,  laughter  and  jolly  jests  were  heard.  All  of  the  guests 
praised  Gacharnah's  menu,  his  excellent  taste,  his  undeniable 
competency  in  all  matters  of  gastronomy  or  stock  raising.  And 
he,  rosy  and  smiling  all  over,  letting  his  satisfaction  ooze  out  at 
every  pore,  gave  little  familiar  slaps  on  the  shoulders  of  his 
neighbors  with  his  chubby  hands,  treating  the  Minister  likewise 
with  easy  familiarity,  whereat  Alcon  frowned  a  bit;  but  Gachar- 
nah  went  all  about  the  table  with  the  utmost  good  nature,  his 
paunch  triumphant,  as  usual.  In  his  feverish  brain  Gacharnah 
saw  millions  of  pesos  crossing  each  other,  and  in  his  mind's  eye 
he  saw  the  word  transmitted  by  him  per  cable  in  letters  of  fire, 
the  word  which  meant  to  despatch  the  vessel  armed  for  war:  the 
word  Persifi cation. 

The  telegraph  operator  at  this  moment  rose  from  his  table  and 
in  silence  took  two  telegrams  to  Alcon,  who  read  them  also  in 
silence,  and  then  left  them  on  the  table.  Agiieros,  while  occu- 
pied carving  the  bird  and  distributing  slices,  by  sidelong  glances 
managed  to  make  out  the  contents  of  the  despatches  in  frag- 
ments, carving,  conversing,  answering,  and  reading  slily,  as 
follows : 

"  This  wing  for  the  Seiior  Minister." 

To  the  Minister  of  War.  The  Revolutionists  have  taken  the 
steamers  . 


332  PAX 

"  Colonel  Karlonoff,  I  am  giving  you  these  tender  cuts." 

taken  the  steamers  and  armed  them  .  .  . 
"  To  be  sure,  friend,  excellent  Bordeaux  wine." 
armed  them  for  war  purposes,  have  taken  pos  .  .  . 

"  Yes,  friend  Alcon,  I  have  bathed  in  Ubaque.  .  .  .  Some- 
thing more  of  the  breast  ? 

taken  possession  of  the  river.  .  .  . 

"  Thanks,  I  have  already  helped  myself  to  some  fish." 
The  whole  of  Tolima  under  arms.  .  .  . 

"  Well,  I  prefer  champagne." 
The  situation  is  most  grave.  .  .  . 

"  This  salad  for  His  Honor.  .  .  .  Another  small  piece?  .  .  . 
There  goes." 

Terencio  Nichols  has  occupied  the  bridge  in  Girardot.  .  .  . 

Alcon  took  the  telegrams,  folded  them  calmly,  put  them  with 
others  into  an  envelope,  handed  that  to  one  of  the  aides  over  his 
shoulder,  and  then  wiped  his  mouth  with  the  napkin. 

"It  is  for  General  Ronderos.  ...  It  concerns  him.  .  .  . 
The  salad  is  excellent." 

Gacharnah  approached  the  table.  With  his  supreme  skill  as 
a  waiter  he  served  Alcon  with  champagne,  and  murmured  in  a 
sweet  and  obsequious  voice : 

"  A  little  ice  for  the  Sefior  Minister's  champagne?  " 

CHAPTER  XXX 

THE   FAMILY    CRUCIFIX 

THE  last  rays  of  the  sun  shone  upon  the  dark  dress  of  Dona 
Ana,  and  in  the  half  shadow  of  the  apartment  her  white  head 
and  her  thin  and  bloodless  hands  were  sharply  defined.  In  an 


THE  FAMILY  CRUCIFIX  333 

attitude  of  abandon  and  fatigue,  submitting  to  an  excess  of 
grief,  she  swallowed  her  tears,  was  sunk  in  her  bitterness,  con- 
quered and  prostrated  by  the  sorrow  that  enwrapped  her  like  a 
clinging  garment.  Roberto  was  taking  his  departure  for  the 
war  that  very  night.  Arriving  at  Ubaque,  he  had  spoken  to  her 
of  his  leaving  as  of  something  probable,  but  afar  off.  Her 
heart,  however,  her  faithful  heart,  which  made  her  always  di- 
vine the  thoughts  of  her  son,  had  told  her  that  the  hour  of 
parting  was  drawing  near. 

Once  in  a  while  hope  had  seemed  to  smile  on  her,  and  she  had 
almost  forced  herself  to  believe  in  a  period  of  future  happiness. 
Her  soul,  like  those  timid  and  colorless  flowers  that  were  born 
in  the  shade,  began  to  assume  a  ruddy  tint,  began  to  open  to  a 
new  sun,  to  an  unknown  sun,  the  sun  of  happiness.  Her  imagi- 
nation, benumbed  in  the  ice  of  adversity,  had  again  unfolded  its 
wings  and  attempted  flight.  In  the  midst  of  sweet  dreams,  she 
had  seen  the  lost  haciendas  recovered.  But  then  the  awful 
words:  "The  scaffold!  The  rock!"  would  flit  through  her 
mind,  and  these  words,  bringing  back  memories  of  humiliation 
and  torture,  would  become  food  for  her  pride  and  hauteur,  be- 
cause they  represented  the  triumphant  efforts  of  her  son.  She 
had  seen  herself  once  again  in  the  old  manorial  house  at  Bogota, 
surrounded  by  the  shadows  of  her  ancestors,  encompassed  by 
recollections,  amidst  those  portraits  installed  for  ages  in  the 
ancient  drawing  room  where  the  high  chairs  and  the  damask 
hangings  were  forever  occupying  their  places. 

And  another  enchanting  vision  had  come  to  her-:  the  balcony, 
the  roses  of  Castile  which  she  herself  would  scatter  upon  Roberto 
and  Ines  amidst  the  sound  of  loving  voices  and  the  plashing  of 
the  cool  waters  in  the  fountain  with  its  stone  basin.  ...  In  the 
place  of  anxiety  and  worry  there  would  be  the  felicity  of  Ro- 
berto, and  a  solid,  indestructible  fortune.  And  now,  without 
any  warning,  while  still  basking  in  her  own  blissful  dreams, 
when  calm  and  confidence  seemed  so  firmly  established,  .  .  .  the 
war!  Again  taken  unawares,  again  the  anguish,  the  momentary 
expectation  of  frightful  evil,  the  agony  of  suspense  ...  the 
family  fortune  irremediably  lost,  ...  the  specter  of  penury  and 
indigence  .  .  .  desperation.  All  happiness  and  gaiety  gone  for- 
ever, dead,  buried  in  a  tomb  whose  crushing  load  the  old  lady 
felt  weighing  on  her  breast.  A  weight  so  gigantic,  so  enormous 


334  PAX 

that  it  ground  her  down  in  the  dust  and  mire,  that  it  crunched 
her  very  bones  to  powder,  asphyxiated  and  throttled  her,  op- 
pressed her  heart,  and  annihilated  her  soul. 

Silence  reigned  about  her,  a  silence  charged  with  menace, 
with  sinister  presentiments  and  tragic  visions,  images  of  what 
her  inseparable  companions  were  going  to  be  as  soon  as  Roberto 
should  leave  her:  solitude  and  neglect. 

The  clock  hanging  on  the  wall  with  its  monotonous  and  even 
tick-tack,  which  did  not  interrupt  the  silence  but  seemed  to  form 
a  part  of  it,  reminded  Dona  Ana  of  her  own  existence.  With 
its  expressionless  chimes  it  appeared  to  discount  life  itself,  to 
mark  the  atoms  of  eternity,  and  with  its  indifferent  accents  to 
ridicule  the  illusions  of  Dona  Ana,  recalling  her  own  misfor- 
tunes, to  count  and  recount  her  disappointments,  to  bring  the 
moment  of  separation  and  enforced  absence  nearer  and  nearer,  in 
order  to  continue  thereafter  monotonous,  frigid,  accompanying 
with  the  self-same  tone  laughter  and  tears,  always  counting  the 
seconds,  taking  apart  the  tiniest  fragments  of  eternity. 

Dona  Ana  trembled  nervously  as  the  Angelus  sounded  in  the 
adjoining  tower,  and  she  thought  she  could  discover  in  that  slow 
and  plaintive  sound,  as  though  issuing  from  an  infinite  melan- 
choly in  space,  the  destiny  of  pain  and  grief  which  these  bells 
spoke  of  now  and  were  to  speak  of  all  the  following  evenings  — 
a  destiny  which  was  bound  to  accomplish  itself  inexorably. 

It  was  a  disconcerting  tune,  sharp,  shrill,  humble,  and  in  that 
fateful  hour,  facing  the  perspective  of  misery  and  definite  dis- 
aster, it  seemed  to  her  as  though  it  would  always  form  a  con- 
trast in  her  recollection  with  the  great  bell  of  the  cathedral  in 
Bogota  which  in  a  past  that  no  one  could  ever  bring  to  life 
again,  had  been  steadily  announcing  festivities  and  rejoicings, 
as  its  clear  and  resonant  voice  had  filled  the  apartments  of  the 
manorial  home  of  the  Avilas. 

The  destiny  of  pain  had  to  be  fulfilled.  The  war  had  de- 
stroyed the  family  fortune,  and  it  was  now  to  rob  her  of  Ro- 
berto as  well.  This  was  the  last,  the  most  formidable  blow, 
and  it  was  useless  to  try  and  resist,  to  struggle  against  fate.  All 
that  she  could  do  was  to  resign  herself  mutely  to  omnipotent 
fatality.  And  in  an  outburst  of  anguish  she  turned  her  tor- 
tured eyes  toward  the  Mater  Dolorosa:  "  Most  Holy  Virgin," 


THE  FAMILY  CRUCIFIX  335 

she  wailed,  "  defend  and  protect  my  Roberto,  and  let  him  return 
safe  to  me !  " 

The  soul  of  Dona  Ana,  habituated  to  sadness  without  tears 
and  to  anxious  silence,  to  mute  pain,  had  expanded  with  its 
trials,  so  that,  in  opening  itself  to  compassion  "and  bearing  the 
stamp  of  real  greatness,  it  harbored  all  the  maternal  tenderness, 
all  human  suffering,  and  seemed  to  accompany  that  night  which 
was  to  bring  such  woe  to  mothers,  all  the  sons  departing  on  dan- 
gerous errands  to  distant  places,  to  deadly  climates  and  hunger 
and  thirst  and  nakedness,  surrounded  by  constant  peril  and 
terrible  diseases  in  order  to  meet  agony  and  death  in  wilder- 
nesses, in  burning  plains,  on  the  battlefield,  with  no  hand  to 
close  their  eyes. 

She  heard  Roberto's  light  step  in  the  corridor.  She  straight- 
ened up  in  her  chair  and  quelled  the  anguish  of  her  heart.  She 
did  not  wish  to  depress  her  son  with  her  own  melancholy,  nor 
to  break  his  spirit.  Duty  it  was  that  obliged  him  to  leave  her, 
and  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  go.  Both  by  a  tacit  agreement 
avoided  airing  their  sorrows,  and  giving  loud  and  open  expres- 
sion to  them.  Both  came  of  stock  that  knew  how  to  face  calam- 
ity, secret  pain,  death  itself,  with  forehead  high  and  heart  whole, 
without  cowardice  or  misgivings. 

"  Are  you  here,  dear  mother?  " 

They  remained  silent.  The  cold  wind  of  January  whistled 
through  the  chinks  of  the  window,  howled  in  the  patio,  carried 
from  afar  the  shrill  blast  of  a  locomotive.  The  old  clock  on 
the  wall,  with  an  even  pulsation,  as  of  an  insensible  being, 
alien  to  all  emotion,  went  on  with  its  monotonous  tick-tack  .  .  . 
but  suddenly  it  began  to  creak,  wheels  were  heard  to  turn  inside 
it  dully,  and  then  it  struck  slowly  seven. 

The  silence  still  continued,  and  so  did  the  strong  west  wind. 
The  twigs  of  the  bushes  were  lashed  by  it  against  the  grating. 
The  clock  repeated  the  hour:  the  train,  as  if  to  remind  Roberto 
that  the  hour  had  come,  issued  anew  a  long,  piercing,  dominant 
signal,  and  the  echoes  of  the  Monserrate  gave  it  back. 

Then  Dona  Ana  rose,  lifted  her  handsome  white  head,  crossed 
the  room  with  a  firm  step,  and  drew  from  her  neck  a  golden 
crucifix  attached  to  a  ribbon.  And  while  she  put  it  on  him,  she 
kissed,  at  random,  furtively,  as  though  by  accident,  his  fore- 


336  PAX 

head,  cheeks,  neck,  rested  her  trembling  hands  on  his  breast  and 
upon  his  palpitating  heart.  .  .  . 

"It  is  the  ancient  crucifix  of  the  family  .  .  .  with  it  your 
grandfather  died  ...  it  was  the  last  gift  of  your  father 
may  it  accompany  you  and  bless  you,  son  of  my  soul !  " 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE   MONUMENT   TO   THE   DEAD 

ALEJANDRO  went  busily  about  the  apartments  in  his  house, 
attending  to  the  last  preparations  for  his  departure  for  the  war. 
He  reread  and  burned  papers;  assisted  by  a  servant  he  packed 
his  trunks,  in  which  he  also  put  a  few  books;  he  placed  aside 
a  sword  which  had  already  served  him  in  two  previous  cam- 
paigns; and  then  he  went  to  bid  a  last  good-by  to  the  monu- 
ment which  bore  for  him  the  vivid  remembrance  of  the  happiest 
moment  of  his  life,  that  monument  which  was  to  him  the  sepul- 
cher  of  his  happiness.  The  monument  to  the  dead !  .  .  .  What 
bitter  and  tragic  feelings  it  awoke!  He  was  thinking  this  sud- 
denly, and  then  remembered  that  the  present  war  was  similar. 
The  epoch  of  destruction  and  death  which  had  begun  anew  for 
Colombia  was  symbolized,  enclosed  there,  by  that  monument. 

A  colossal  sepulcher  it  was,  on  one  side  and  the  other  men, 
women  and  children  who  at  the  threshold  of  eternity  move  about, 
advance,  kneel,  prostrate  themselves,  are  erect,  according  to  their 
agony,  their  resignation,  or  their  heroism.  .  .  .  Yes,  those  un- 
fortunates who  go  to  battle  to  die  by  thousands  are  here  repre- 
sented—  those  mothers,  those  wives,  who  follow  them  to  camp 
and  who  perish  there  in  pain  and  misery,  those  masses  decimated 
by  bullets  and  epidemics  —  they  are  all  shown  in  this  monu- 
ment, they  are  standing  there  at  the  gate  of  eternity.  .  .  .  That 
central  figure  stretched  out  at  full  length  in  the  crypt  and  over- 
spread by  the  vast  shadow  of  Death  —  that  is  Colombia  herself. 
Heroic  dead,  unknown  and  forgotten  dead,  humble  dead  over 
whose  unenshrined  ashes  no  cross  and  no  token  will  arise.  It 
will  be  for  you  survivors  to  remember,  for  you  to  erect  for  them 
both  a  monument  and  a  grave.  The  common  ditch  into  which 
the  bones  that  the  revolution  has  scattered  all  through  the  moun- 


THE  MONUMENT  TO  THE  DEAD  337 

tains  and  the  plains  of  Colombia  could  be  piled  on  high,  is  not 
a  worthy  burial  place. 

There  was  heard  in  the  deep  silence  of  the  room  a  trumpet 
blast,  the  trampling  and  clatter  of  horses,  the  passing  of  a 
squadron  of  cavalry.  He  rushed  his  preparations  for  starting, 
thinking  with  pain  and  sorrow  of  the  fact  that  he  must  leave 
behind  him  all  the  amenities  of  home,  his  pictures,  his  books, 
to  go  and  hurl  himself  into  brutality  and  destruction,  go  where 
he  must  paddle  in  mud  and  blood,  see  wounds  and  tears,  breathe 
the  foul  air  of  barracks,  the  distasteful  fumes  of  the  hospital. 

He  went  out  quickly,  took  a  train,  and  in  the  agitation  of  the 
trip,  crossing  the  low  plains  swiftly,  at  the  side  of  General  Ron- 
deros,  amidst  the  jingle  of  weapons,  enveloped  by  the  whole  ap- 
paratus of  an  army,  seeing  the  gleam  of  bright  arms,  of  steel  and 
the  gay  trappings  of  uniforms,  his  thoughts  changed,  and  he  felt 
the  fascination  of  strife,  the  atavistic  attraction  of  battle,  the 
desire  of  removing  obstacles,  of  being  more  skilful,  more  auda- 
cious, more  persistent  than  the  adversary. 

General  Ronderos  was  searching  his  pockets,  and  then  drew 
out  some  papers  which  he  handed  to  Alejandro. 

"  In  the  confusion  of  departure,  of  the  hurry  and  bustle,  I 
forgot  to  show  you  this  telegram,"  he  said.  "  Roberto  has  been 
prompt  in  attacking  the  enemy  as  soon  as  he  arrived  in  Girar- 
dot." 

"  And  ...   ?  "  said  Alejandro. 

The  query  was  put  with  eagerness. 

"Read!  He  sends  good  news,"  answered  the  General  with 
that  calm  which  a  man  maintains  who  has  grown  old  under  the 
emotions  bred  by  war.  And  Alejandro  read: 

"  Girardot,  January  4.  ... 

"  General  Ronderos  .  .  .  Bogota. 

,  "  instantly  after  our  arrival  here,  at  8  A.  M.,  shots  were  fired  by  sharp- 
shooters placed  on  the  iron  bridge  which  they  had  partially  dismantled 
and  fortified.  The  enemy  resisted  until  4  P.  M.  The  first  battalion  of 
Bogota  behaved  with  courage  and  audacity.  Casanova  decided  the  action 
with  his  men.  We  then  crossed  the  bridge  and  went  into  camp  at  the 
other  side  of  the  river,  at  the  hacienda  La  Gloria,  where  there  are  plenty 
of  provisions  for  our  troops. 

"  Unless  ordered  otherwise,  I  shall  pursue  the  rebels,  whom  Socarraz 
with  500  mules  has  joined.  Exposito  Montes,  Neron  Jaspe  and  Sinai 
Largacha  have  occupied  Honda.  Landaburo,  who  has  proclaimed  himself 


338  PAX 

provisional  president,  has  taken  Bodegas,  seized  a  number  of  vessels,  and 
has  forcibly  requisitioned  coffee,  hides,  rubber.     He  fulfils  his  pledge:  he 
loads  his  knapsack  with  fruits  for  exportation. 
"  Please  communicate  instructions. 

"  ROBERTO." 

After  reading  the  telegram,  Alejandro  interrogated  General 
Ronderos : 

"  And  is  there  no  trace  as  yet  of  Bellegarde?  " 

"  None." 

"It  is  strange.  Since  the  night  at  the  Union  Club  not  a 
single  word  from  him." 

"  He  was  with  me  when  Socarraz  made  his  attack  on  me.  .  .  . 
He  was  intending  to  leave  for  Europe  on  the  next  day,  but  he 
has  probably  postponed  his  journey.  ...  In  times  of  such  dis- 
order as  now,  during  such  confusion,  nobody  knows  anything  of 
the  other;  we  must  continue  to  inquire  after  him." 

They  arrived  at  the  terminal  of  the  railroad,  and  left  the 
train.  Alejandro  flew  to  the  telegraph  office,  and  there  was 
handed  a  despatch  from  Roberto,  dated  at  La  Gloria.  He  read : 

Here  goes  now  on  his  uncertain  road 
He  who  with  his  soul  cherishes  thee, 
And  hopes  when  death  seizes  thee, 
To  welcome  thee  at  the  great  port 
Called,  like  this  one,  La  Gloria. 

After  getting  the  whole  army  underway  on  the  road  to  Honda, 
Ronderos  and  Alejandro,  while  the  mules  outside  trotted  past 
their  shelter,  had  some  conversation. 

"  Frankly,"  said  the  General,  "  the  situation  of  the  Govern- 
ment is  serious.  Cardoso,  although  defeated  in  a  first  engage- 
ment, will  return  with  larger  forces.  The  entire  Republic  is  on 
fire.  But  the  most  serious  point  is  that  the  revolutionary  armies 
have  taken  possession  of  the  river,  and  that  with  Honda,  Bar- 
ranquilla  and  other  harbors  the  entire  communication  with  the 
coast  and  even  with  the  outside  world  has  been  cut.  The  cus- 
toms duties,  provisions,  all  resources.  .  .  ." 

"  The  first  thing,  General,  will  be  to  take  Honda." 

"  Doubtless;  we  are  going  to  do  that  very  thing." 

"And  then?" 

"  Then  sweep  them  from  the  plains  of  Tolima,  proceed  to 


THE  MONUMENT  TO  THE  DEAD  339 

Antioquia,  and  next  make  our  way,  on  shore,  if  we  have  no 
river  route  open  to  us,  to  the  Atlantic  Coast." 

"  But  the  river,  .  .  ."  suggested  Alejandro.  "  Don't  you 
think  it  would  be  best  to  flank  them,  occupy  some  of  the  harbors 
along  there,  and  thus  interrupt  the  communications  of  the  revo- 
lutionary forces?  " 

"  Certainly.  You  yourself  will  take  charge  of  that.  You 
will  enter  by  the  mountains  of  Antioquia,  then  turn  towards  the 
river  by  the  forest  road,  You  will  then  seize  the  harbor  of 
Borja,  which  you  know  better  than  any  one.  After  that  we 
shall  see." 

There  arrived  a  battalion  which  had  left  the  capital  on  the 
previous  evening.  The  soldiers,  bathed  in  perspiration,  and 
nearly  prostrated  by  the  heat  and  powerful  sunlight,  saluted 
their  chief  with  enthusiastic  acclamations. 

Ahead,  disappearing  and  then  reappearing  in  the  turns  of 
the  road  leading  up  the  hillside,  could  be  seen  the  outlines  of 
Doctor  Miranda,  and  near  him  the  snow-white  hoods  of  the 
Sisters  of  Charity. 

After  three  days'  march,  during  which  several  sutlers  died 
from  sunstroke,  the  army  arrived,  under  a  sky  of  brass,  at  the 
shores  of  the  Magdalena  River,  opposite  Honda. 

General  Ronderos  and  Alejandro,  accompanied  by  a  suite  of 
aides-de-camp,  made  reconnaissance  under  the  fire  of  the  enemy. 
The  Revolutionaries  had  destroyed  the  suspension  bridge,  the 
cables  of  which  were  deep  in  the  water.  The  forces  of  Landa- 
buro,  Montes,  Jaspe  and  Largacha  had  taken  possession  of  some 
houses  on  the  opposite  bank,  or  else  they  had  dug  trenches  for 
themselves  up  on  the  heights,  behind  long  parapets  formed  with 
the  planks  taken  from  the  bridge  or  with  the  sleepers  of  the 
railway. 

Ronderos  aligned  his  troops  between  some  morasses  in  which 
the  soldiers  had  hidden  themselves  up  to  their  chins,  and  on  top 
of  a  rocky  hill  which  commanded  the  positions  of  the  adversary. 

"  General,"  said  Alejandro,  "  there  are  still  some  of  our 
troops  in  the  rear.  Do  you  want  to  wait  for  them?  " 

"  No,  Alejandro,"  he  answered,  without  halting  his  horse. 
"  Here  are  our  guns  already.  .  .  .  Just  see  how  quickly  those 
officers  of  the  Grenadiers  are  working!  The  thunder  of  our 
big  pieces  will  soon  call  those  delayed  detachments." 


340  PAX 

From  the  mules  were  now  unloaded  the  wheels,  the  caissons, 
and  soon  the  batteries  were  in  readiness,  with  their  conical  piles 
of  ammunition  beside  them.  The  gunfire  began. 

A  flash.  A  big  hole  torn.  A  trembling  as  of  an  earthquake. 
It  shook  the  air  as  far  as  the  utmost  confines  of  the  horizon. 
A  thousand  echoes  repeated  the  tremendous  roar  with  incessant 
repercussion.  The  shells  crossed  the  wide  river  with  a  hum- 
ming sound,  and  buried  themselves  on  the  opposite  shore,  mak- 
ing gaps  in  the  trenches,  or  smashing  the  small  houses  to  frag- 
ments. Pillars  of  smoke,  which  the  wind  swept  away,  and  be- 
tween which,  now  and  then,  small  white  crowns  were  floating. 

General  Ronderos  shuddered  with  a  mixture  of  martial  joy 
and  sorrow,  for  these  guns  to  his  mind  had  in  this  new  era  of 
blood  and  pain  a  voice  which  insulted  and  which  groaned, 
which  threatened  the  enemy  and  which  muttered  a  de  profundis 
for  the  dead. 

Scarcely  had  the  rifle  shooting  begun,  when  the  chief  of  Junin 
fell.  They  carried  him  to  some  distance  among  the  rearguard, 
and  placed  him  in  the  large  room  of  a  small  house  prepared  for 
the  ambulance  by  Doctor  Miranda  and  the  Sisters  of  Charity. 
TJie  priest  bent  over  the  wounded  man. 

"Where?"  he  murmured. 

"  Here,  Doctor,  in  the  chest.  ..." 

He  opened  his  shirt,  and  the  blood  began  to  run  on  the 
floor. 

He  grasped  his  wound  with  the  left  hand,  and  with  the  right 
pressed  the  arm  of  the  priest.  The  latter  understood  his  wish, 
and  he  bent  over  him  to  hear  the  confession  of  the  dying  man. 

After  a  short  while,  being  almost  unable  to  articulate,  he 
whispered : 

"  Doctor,  they  fight  stoutly." 

The  noise  of  the  battle  was  heard  even  here.  One  could 
clearly  distinguish  the  tack-tack  of  the  scattered  rifle  fire;  again, 
the  discharges  in  mass,  the  dull  booming  of  the  guns,  the  regu- 
lar hammering  of  the  machine  guns.  Other  wounded  men  be- 
gan to  arrive.  The  little  house  was  very  soon  full  of  blood,  of 
moans  and  of  dying  gasps.  The  heat  in  it  grew  and  became 
asphyxiating.  The  Sisters  of  Charity  came  first,  and  next  the 
surgeons  and  their  assistants.  The  ambulance  service  was  being 
organized  on  the  spot. 


THE  MONUMENT  TO  THE  DEAD  341 

Sister  San  Ligorio,  in  the  midst  of  heartrending  shrieks,  of 
sobs  and  despair,  in  spite  of  the  pools  of  blood  everywhere,  went 
on  washing  the  wounded,  binding  up  the  wounds,  refreshing  the 
parched  throats,  the  pale,  dry  lips,  wiping  off  the  sweat  of  the 
dying  and  speaking  within  the  hearing  of  these  unfortunate 
fellow  creatures  words  of  resignation  and  of  hope. 

During  the  first  few  moments  Doctor  Miranda  had  to  master 
himself.  The  transition  was  too  sudden.  He  had  passed  from 
hymn  books  to  the  battlefield,  from  being  a  master-Hellenist  to 
these  scenes  of  horror,  from  his  study  to  the  position  of  chaplain 
in  the  army,  and  from  a  life  of  deepest  peace  to  one  of  unspeak- 
able terror,  to  this  small  hall  crowded  with  suffocating  men 
whose  wounds  caused  them  to  emit  notes  of  pain  almost  unlike 
anything  human.  But  quickly  these  feelings  disappeared,  and 
Doctor  Miranda  felt  springing  up  within  him  a  new  kind  of 
enthusiasm,  the  consciousness  of  a  new  type  of  vocation,  and  he 
accepted  his  burden  with  heroism,  almost  with  joy. 

His  cassock  stained  with  blood,  and  his  hands  likewise 
smeared  with  it,  he  nevertheless  was  everywhere,  comforting, 
helping,  blessing;  he  lent  a  willing  hand  in  transporting  the 
wounded,  in  placing  them  on  the  operation  table,  where  the 
surgeons  and  their  assistants  swiftly  cut  off  arms  and  legs  that 
fell  to  the  ground  and  were  pushed  contemptuously  aside  with 
the  foot.  The  operators  dived  with  their  forceps  deep  into  the 
fearful  wounds  made  by  bullet  or  shot,  and  then  they  just  as 
quickly  sewed  together  the  ragged  edges  of  bleeding  flesh,  while 
red  jets  of  blood  spurted  out  meanwhile.  The  priest  heard  with 
horror  how  the  terrific  noise  of  the  battle  went  on  unabated,  and 
saw  with  similar  feelings  how  the  stream  of  new  arrivals,  mostly 
with  ghastly  wounds,  went  steadily  on. 

Already  the  assistant  surgeons,  their  sleeves  tucked  up  to  the 
elbows,  their  arms  bespattered  with  the  dreadful  fluid,  no  longer 
took  the  pains  to  have  the  wounded  carried  first  to  the  operation 
table,  but  kept  on  instead  working  among  these  poor  fellows  with 
haste,  with  a  mechanical  skill,  as  though  they  were  dead  bodies, 
soulless,  unfeeling,  medical  preparations. 

One  assistant  surgeon,  without  paying  any  attention  whatever 
to  the  patient's  roars  of  pain,  extracted  a  bullet  from  the  stom- 
ach of  a  captain  who  was  stretched  out  on  the  soil  outside  upon 
a  pile  of  straw,  the  latter  reddening  more  and  more  with  his  fast 


342  PAX 

flowing  blood,  while  another  wounded  man  followed  with  curi- 
osity and  horror  the  play  of  the  scalpel  and  was  waiting  his  own 
turn,  having  meanwhile  been  placed  carelessly  with  his  back 
against  the  wall.  Suddenly  the  captain  began  to  gurgle,  to 
vomit  blood.  Others  filled  the  little  house  with  their  groans, 
their  dismaying  cries,  their  death  rattles. 

One  of  the  wounded,  placed  sitting  in  the  corridor,  with  one 
of  his  legs  shattered,  recovered  strength  for  a  moment,  leaned 
on  his  elbow,  and  listened  attentively  to  the  turmoil  of  battle. 

"  How  splendidly  the  machine  guns  are  working,"  he  said. 

A  spent  bullet  hit  an  ox  loaded  with  munition,  and  the  animal 
crumpled  its  hide,  lashed  with  its  tail,  as  though  to  chase  away 
an  insect,  then  doubled  up  slowly,  fell  prostrate  on  its  own 
load,  and  the  whites  of  its  eyes  began  to  show.  Then  it  com- 
menced to  groan  softly  in  a  dull  sort  of  way,  and  its  agony 
began,  as  though  to  protest  against  the  evil  deeds  of  man. 

Alejandro  went  at  great  speed  to  bring  up  a  battalion  that  had 
not  yet  arrived  at  the  battlefield. 

"  Come  on,  boys,"  he  encouraged  them  with  a  shout. 

He  put  new  life  into  them,  made  them  follow  him  at  quick- 
step, and  when  they  got  up  to  the  battle  line,  when  the  bullets 
began  to  whistle  about  them,  he  turned  to  the  military  band 
that  was  marching  in  front  of  them,  and  called  out: 

"  Let's  have  the  national  hymn,  quick,  or  anything  else,  a 
lively  march  or  a  bambuco." 

The  musicians  put  their  instruments  to  their  mouths  without 
further  ado,  and  played  the  victory  march  from  Aida  with  a  vim, 
the  stirring  notes  of  this  march  mingling  with  the  thunder  of  the 
cannons,  the  latter  seeming  to  mark  the  rhythm. 

And  then  Alejandro,  quite  suddenly,  inspired  doubtless  by  the 
music,  saw  the  following  image  arise  in  his  memory :  the  theater, 
a  night  of  opera,  the  house  overcrowded,  gaiety,  life,  waves  of 
light  making  the  diamonds  on  the  snowy  necks  of  the  ladies 
sparkle,  the  faces  in  the  immense  audience  standing  out  clearly 
against  the  red  background  of  plush  and  gold  in  the  boxes,  and 
on  the  stage  the  triumphal  entry  of  Rhadames.  .  .  . 

The  soldiers  went  into  battle  full  of  spirit,  headed  by  Alejan- 
dro who,  feeling  the  rich  blood  of  his  forebears  boiling  in  his 
veins,  drew  himself  up  proudly  in  his  saddle,  rose  in  his  stir- 


THE  MONUMENT  TO  THE  DEAD  343 

rups,  and  launched  himself  into  the  thick  clouds  of  powder 
smoke. 

On  every  side  he  noted  minute  details  while  riding  along  the 
ranks  of  these  men  drenched  in  sweat,  breathing  an  air  of  fire, 
deafening  the  atmosphere  with  the  ceaseless  roar  of  the  guns. 

He  came  to  a  small  hill.  There  a  machine  gun  went  on 
tack-tacking  without  cease.  The  soldier  who  handled  the  mech- 
anism of  it  fell,  another  instantly  replaced  him,  but  he  also  was 
killed.  The  bullets  fell  in  a  perfect  shower  upon  this  group  of 
men,  and  they  began  to  give  way.  One  of  them  rose,  ran  away 
without  his  headpiece,  then  stopped,  turned  around  and  never 
got  up  again.  Alejandro  dismounted,  brought  another  squad  of 
men,  and  started  them  anew  handling  the  gun.  He  went  on  up 
and  down  the  battle  line,  always  in  an  atmosphere  that  was  both 
dim  and  hot.  Thus  he  also  arrived  at  the  hillock  where  the 
artillery  was  stationed,  almost  perishing  with  thirst,  and  feeling 
the  tickling  of  the  acrid  gunpowder  smoke  in  his  throat.  From 
this  height  he  cast  a  sweeping  glance  backwards:  towards  the 
huge  cyclones  of  dun  smoke,  the  horrible  nightmare  of  it  all:  a 
bizarre  mixture  of  the  scarlet  of  uniforms,  the  purple  of  spilt 
blood,  the  blue  of  jackets,  the  glitter  of  arms,  the  flashes  of  mus- 
ket and  gunfire,  the  trees  destroyed  and  torn  to  unsightly  stumps 
by  bursting  shells,  the  horses  prone  on  the  slippery  ground  and 
convulsively  struggling  there  in  their  death  agonies,  wounded 
men  who  crawled  painfully  along  between  puddles  of  dusky 
water,  soldiers  who  ran  for  life,  others  who  moved  about  fever- 
ishly, who  appeared  and  then  were  again  swallowed  up  in  the 
dim  reek  of  smoke;  faces  inflamed  with  passion,  perspiring 
faces,  faces  disfigured,  pallid,  grimy,  stained  with  blood  and 
mud,  faces  convulsed  by  anger,  fear,  passion,  all  half  hidden 
by  this  all-embracing  cloud  of  battle.  And  then  the  dead,  lying 
there  with  glassy  eyes,  with  limbs  distorted,  with  clenched  fists, 
in  unnatural,  in  ludicrous,  in  dramatic  postures,  mouth  open, 
showing  the  teeth  as  if  in  a  mocking  smile. 

He  went  and  stood  amidst  the  batteries.  One  commandant 
directed  the  handling  of  two  new  Hotchkiss  guns  which  shone 
in  the  sun.  This  man  went  from  one  to  the  other,  with  enthu- 
siasm, with  youthful  motions,  with  catlike  agility.  He  made 
them  load,  then  pointed  the  gun  with  glee,  burst  into  loud  laugh- 


344  PAX 

ter  at  every  discharge.  Then  he  would  follow  the  course  of  the 
projectile  in  silence,  would  gaze  attentively  towards  the  oppo- 
site shore,  and  then  observing  the  gap  made  there  somewhere, 
seeing  perhaps  the  big  cloud  of  dust  raised  by  the  shot  in  the 
trenches  over  there,  or  a  number  of  frightened  soldiers  fleeing 
from  a  house  just  hit,  he  would  laugh  with  a  hideous  kind  of 
merriment  and  abandon,  then  would  run  back  to  the  battery,  as 
if  acknowledging  a  favor,  would  bend  over  his  piece,  and  upon 
the  hot  mouth  of  the  cannon  he  would  place  his  powder-black- 
ened hand  lovingly,  patting  it  in  approval. 

"  Just  look,  General  Borja,"  he  would  say,  "  this  new  shot!  " 

He  bent  again  over  his  gun,  adjusted  the  sight  on  it,  knelt  on 
the  ground,  laughingly  rose,  then  took  one  step  backwards,  threw 
his  arms  wide,  and  fell  without  a  sound,  with  a  red  point  in  his 
forehead.  Over  on  the  other  side  they  concentrated  now  their 
fire  upon  the  flat  top  of  the  hill  where  the  guns  were  stationed. 
A  number  of  the  artillerists  fell  dead  or  wounded  within  a  short 
space  of  time,  and  red  spots  gleamed  among  the  straw  stacks 
used  to  disguise  the  position  of  the  batteries.  Just  then  General 
Ronderos  came  up,  quiet  and  cheerful.  The  bullets  were  still 
raining  down,  but  the  General  rode  at  a  short  trot  along  the 
brow  of  the  hill,  again  and  again,  ignoring  the  danger,  tranquil 
and  thoughtful,  as  he  used  to  do  when  riding  among  his  pas- 
tures at  La  Laguna.  The  aides-de-camp  came  and  went  with 
precipitation,  spoke  to  Ronderos  with  anxiety,  with  enthusiasm, 
then  turned  their  steeds  with  spasmodic  zeal,  and  went  back  at 
a  gallop,  and  their  hurried  gestures,  their  evident  worry  con- 
trasted strongly  with  the  even  step  of  the  stout  horse,  with  the 
serenity  of  the  old  veteran.  Suddenly  the  General  halted  his 
mount,  turned  slowly  to  Perucho,  his  orderly  and  trumpeter,  who 
put  his  trumpet  to  his  lips,  inflated  his  cheeks,  and  listened  to 
the  order. 

"Ceasefire!" 

On  the  other  shore,  upon  the  mud  wall  of  a  house,  through 
a  curtain  of  bluish  smoke  dimly  visible,  a  white  flag  was  flutter- 
ing. The  trumpet  blast  was  repeated,  and  little  by  little  the 
firing  died  away.  Then  was  heard  on  the  other  side  of  the 
river  a  second  blast  .  .  .  the  signal  for  a  parley. 

Soon  after  the  white  flag  could  be  seen  coming  down  the  hill- 
side, and  at  last  arrived  at  the  shore.  Next  a  big  boat  started 


THE  MONUMENT  TO  THE  DEAD  345 

from  the  bank  and  crossed  the  river  obliquely.  Alejandro  with 
his  field  glass  carefully  observed  the  route  of  the  vessel  on  the 
river.  He  noticed  the  hard  task  the  rowers  had  to  overcome  the 
strong  current,  the  flash  of  the  sunlight  on  the  wet  paddles  that 
ran  with  bright  drops  of  water.  The  boat  arrived,  and  the 
emissaries  sprang  ashore. 

"  Hello!  "  exclaimed  Alejandro,  who  kept  on  watching  them 
with  his  glass,  "  it  is  '  Social  Reason  '  Vidaurre  and  Villafaiie." 

They  came  up.  General  Ronderos  took  his  horse  slowly  to 
the  shade  of  an  immense  poplar. 

"  Senor  General,"  said  Vidaurre,  "  we  come  in  behalf  of 
peace." 

"  We  carry,"  spoke  up  Villafane,  "  these  papers  here  from 
General  Landaburo,  who  makes  the  patriotic  proposition  to  con- 
clude a  political  pact  which  would  put  an  end  to  the  present 
war." 

Ronderos,  without  opening  his  lips,  took  one  of  the  papers, 
read  it,  and  handed  it  to  Alejandro.  The  latter  read : 

"  Commander's  headquarters  of  the  terro-fluvial  army. 

"  Provisional  Presidency  of  the  Republic,  Presidential  Palace, 

"  Honda,  January  6, 

"  Senor  General  Pedro  Alcantara  Ronderos, 

in  his  encampment. 
"  Greatly  esteemed  Friend  and  General : 

"  Above  all,  I  hope  that  you  will  cause  the  fire  against  me  to  be  sus- 
pended, and  order  that  your  pieces  of  artillery  will  not  expose  this  his- 
toric city  to  destruction,  without  any  advantage  to  yourself.  Yes,  for  my 
part,  I  shall  not  fire  upon  your  forces  any  longer.  I  give  you  my  word 
to  be  here,  without  moving  my  troops,  until  your  arrival.  I  am  greatly 
desirous  of  conferring  amicably  with  you  alone.  You  can  safely  pass  the 
river  without  being  fired  upon.  Only  be  sure  to  float  a  white  flag  in 
the  canoe  that  will  convey  you,  or  else  give  the  signal  of  an  admiral's 
salute  if  you  should  happen  to  come  at  night  time.  You  may  bring  with 
you  two  aides-de-camp  and  one  trumpeter.  Upon  my  word  of  a  general 
and  provisional  president  I  promise  that  both  your  honor  and  your  life 
shall  be  respected. 

"  Your  friend  and  compatriot, 

"  F.  LANDABURO." 

Ronderos  dismounted,  his  aides  surrounded  him.  The  mes- 
sengers thought  he  was  going  to  dictate  some  communication  or 
other,  when  they  heard  the  General  say,  very  calmly  and  with  a 
smile : 


346  PAX 

"  Alejandro,  let  us  take  a  glass  of  beer  with  these  gentlemen!  " 

A  case  of  it  was  opened,  and  Ronderos  drank  the  beer  with 
avidity. 

"  I  am  parched,"  he  said. 

Then  he  seemed  to  consider  the  proposed  truce  as  a  thing  of 
secondary  importance. 

"  Friends,"  he  said,  seating  himself  upon  a  big  load  of  war 
stores,  "  tell  Seiior  Landaburo  that  I  give  him  one  hour  to  sur- 
render, for  that  would  be  the  best  means  to  avoid  further  blood- 
shed." 

He  asked  for  another  glass  of  beer,  slowly  drank  it  with  appe- 
tite, and  said  after  a  short  pause: 

"  Tell  him  that  the  surrender  will  be  unconditional,  but  that 
I  offer  Landaburo  and  his  troops  complete  amnesty,  as  also  the 
means  to  return  home.  This,  according  to  my  notion,  is  a  sim- 
ple particular,  but  I  shall  not  accept  any  political  pact."  Here 
the  speaker  asked  that  his  horse  be  brought,  and  continued.  "  I 
do  not  make  a  pact  with  disorder." 

He  mounted  his  horse,  looked  silently  at  his  watch,  and  put 
spurs  to  his  animal. 

"  General,"  exclaimed  Vidaurre,  when  General  Ronderos  had 
already  proceeded  some  distance,  "  his  excellency,  the  Provi- 
sional President,  has  given  us  verbal  instructions  to  declare  that 
he  wants  to  avoid  the  shedding  of  additional  blood,  of  fraternal 
blood,  that  he  wishes  the  country  to  be  spared  more  ruin  and 
tears." 

"Well,  then,  let  him  surrender!  "  cried  the  General  phleg- 
matically,  and  he  dug  the  spurs  into  his  horse  in  order  to  ride  to 
the  shore  where  the  soldiers  were  drinking  very  noisily,  taking 
large  draughts,  while  standing  upon  the  burning  sand,  and 
where  they  cooled  face,  hands  and  chest  in  the  river. 

Villafafie  called  Alejandro  aside,  and  said: 

"  General,  I  should  like  to  leave  for  the  Capital.  Landaburo 
has  made  us  believe  that  this  war  would  be  a  very  short  one, 
that  the  Government  army  was  unreliable;  but  it  seems  to  me 
that  hostilities  will  drag  on.  If  you  could  have  a  passport  to 
Bogota  made  out  for  me  .  .  ." 

"  In  an  instant,  my  friend,"  said  Alejandro,  "  and  even  with 
assistance  for  your  journey." 

"  Things  over  there,"  then  remarked  Villafane,  while  he  had 


THE  MONUMENT  TO  THE  DEAD  347 

signaled  the  opposite  shore,  "  are  entirely  at  odds.  General 
Montes  arrived  here  on  January  1,  seized  Honda,  also  the 
steamers,  and  began  to  organize  an  army.  We  were  quite 
united,  but  two  days  later  Landaburo  appeared,  proclaimed  him- 
self provisional  president,  asked  to  be  recognized  by  us,  and 
some  of  us  said  yes,  others  no,  while  the  army,  too,  split  into 
halves;  the  two  generals  have  threatened  each  other  with  their 
revolvers,  the  lucky  provisional  president  was  meanwhile  mainly 
busy  in  confiscating  all  the  exportable  fruit,  and  then  having  it 
loaded  on  board  the  steamers  bound  for  the  coast.  ...  In  a 
word,  I  am  going  to  return  to  my  office." 

So  Villafafie  mounted  his  horse  and  took  the  road  for  Bogota, 
itching  for  fat  war  commissions,  for  percentages,  premiums  and 
discounts;  he  was  thinking,  while  he  went  up  towards  Consuelo, 
that  up  there  at  the  Capital  at  these  times  it  would  be  much 
easier  to  pile  up  a  fortune  within  a  brief  time,  and  that  even 
without  running  the  risks  of  war. 

Vidaurre  embarked  for  the  other  shore,  with  the  white  flag 
floating  conspicuously  at  the  bow  of  the  boat.  He  could  be  seen 
going  up  the  steep  hill  in  zigzag;  fashion,  enterng  a  house. 
Shortly  after,  below  Honda,  could  be  heard  the  whistling  of  the 
steamers. 

"  Listen,  friend,"  said  Ronderos  to  Alejandro,  "  all  the  enemy 
wanted  was  to  profit  by  a  truce  to  make  his  escape.  They  are 
making  good  their  flight  this  very  instant.  It  is  impossible  to 
capture  them  now.  I  know  the  trick.  I  never  seriously  be- 
lieved in  the  honest  intentions  of  these  two  messengers." 

Soon  after  some  boats  started  from  the  opposite  bank,  which 
offered  their  services  in  transferring  the  Government  army  to 
Honda. 

The  rowers  which  the  Generals  Montes,  Largacha  and  Jaspe 
had  made  use  of,  told  that  their  forces  were  seen  to  march  off 
in  the  direction  of  the  plains  of  Tolima,  and  that  Landaburo, 
with  all  the  steamers  he  had  been  able  to  seize,  including  the 
Bellegarde  and  the  Ines,  had  escaped  by  the  way  of  the  lower 
river,  with  Puerto  Borja  their  objective  point.  Profiting  by  the 
long  twilight,  the  troops  of  Ronderos  began  to  cross  the  river, 
and  while  the  bridge  was  once  more  put  in  serviceable  condition, 
the  soldiers  were  transferred  in  boats,  the  cattle  swimming  over, 
tied  to  the  prow  of  each  vessel.  As  soon  as  the  town  had  been 


348  PAX 

occupied,  General  Ronderos  sent  forces  to  be  under  the  command 
of  Alejandro,  in  order  to  pursue  those  guerrilla  bands  that  very 
night. 

"  Poor  fellows,"  observed  the  General,  watching  the  various 
detachments  filing  past,  "  they  are  tired  out,  exhausted  from  the 
engagement  of  to-day,  but  it  cannot  be  helped ;  it  is  necessary  to 
put  the  rearguard  in  pursuit  of  the  enemy,  profiting  by  the  en- 
thusiasm aroused  by  our  victory.  For  if  the  forces  of  Montes 
should  join  those  of  Socarraz  and  then  together  attack  Roberto, 
he  would  be  in  great  danger.  Therefore  we  must  go  to  his 
help." 

Night  fell  at  last. 

Doctor  Miranda,  accompanied  by  the  Sisters  of  Charity,  as 
well  as  by  a  number  of  orderlies,  began  his  search  for  the  cas- 
ualties that  had  been  left  behind  by  the  Revolutionaries,  en- 
trusted to  the  mercy  of  their  adversaries.  Together  they  first 
followed  the  river  line,  looked  closely  along  the  whole  shore, 
then  over  the  stubble  fields;  they  climbed  up  and  down,  passed 
the  trenches,  the  redoubts,  the  houses  which  the  machine  guns 
had  swept  and  demolished,  then  went  down  into  the  declivities 
and  gullies,  up  again  to  the  tops  of  the  bluffs,  once  more  down 
to  the  depths,  and  then  at  random  among  the  mists  of  the 
heights,  always  guided  by  the  cries  and  groans  of  the  wounded, 
by  the  murmured  plaints  of  the  dying,  by  their  prayers  and 
sighs  and  pitiful  sobs.  Then  they  would  be  tottering  with  the 
rigid  bodies  of  those  beyond  all  help,  touching  in  the  dark  the 
cold  cheeks  of  corpses.  From  the  depths  of  the  canebrake  there 
issued  a  plaint  that  seemed  to  be  diminishing  in  strength,  but 
sounded  most  pitiful  in  the  dark  night.  When  Doctor  Miranda 
drew  near,  bent  over  and  saw,  the  pale  light  of  the  lantern  fell 
upon  a  body  all  besmeared  with  blood,  the  hands  shaking  and 
lifted  in  supplication,  and  a  face  that  was  already  bathed  in  the 
shadows  of  death.  This  wounded  man  opened  eyes  that  were 
dilated  by  a  great  hope,  seemed  to  beg  with  his  ghastly  gaze. 
Then  he  made  a  supreme  effort  to  rise,  but  a  stream  of  blood 
burst  out  of  his  mouth,  drenching  the  priest's  cassock,  and  the 
hand  which  sought  his  was  getting  icy  cold.  There  also  ap- 
peared in  the  wilderness  of  tall  rushes  near  the  river  and  then 
was  lost  again  in  the  shadows  a  woman  who  had  a  baby  asleep 
in  her  arms,  and  with  a  dull  moaning  that  never  left  her  lips, 


INCENDIARIES  349 

she  kept  on  searching  among  all  these  wounded  and  dead  for  a 
loved  face. 

Then  they  brought  all  of  the  unfortunates  they  had  found 
back  to  camp,  and  all  the  night  the  black  cassock  and  the  snowy 
hoods,  lit  up  by  the  feeble  rays  of  the  lanterns,  like  fantastic 
visions,  like  wandering  souls  on  their  journey,  crossed  and  re- 
crossed  the  hidden  places  in  the  hills,  searching  for  more  aban- 
doned ones,  and  ever  they  would  reappear  where  groans  and 
sighs  weakly  hung  on  the  night  air.  And  from  the  whole  field 
of  battle  there  broke  a  desolate  cry,  a  penetrating  wail,  a  lament 
without  end,  inarticulate  words,  blasphemies,  curses,  howls, 
mystic  invocations,  whispered  prayers,  cries  inaudible,  plaints 
interminable. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

INCENDIARIES 

THE  army  goes  winding  slowly  its  snakelike  trail  along  hol- 
lowed out  paths,  along  sparse,  withered  stalks  of  dead  vegeta- 
tion. The  heat,  the  murderous  fatigue  of  forced  marches,  have 
stilled  the  voices,  driven  away  smiles  and  laughter.  They  all 
crawl  along  mute,  sad,  perspiring  like  a  flock  of  tired  sheep. 

Day  after  day  the  army  has  traversed  the  plains  of  Tolima, 
those  interminable  plains,  showing  nothing  but  rigid,  sickly 
stalks,  so  infertile  that  not  even  the  horses  and  cattle  can  find 
sustenance  there.  Day  after  day  they  have  vainly  longed  to 
reach  the  end  of  their  miseries.  Day  after  day  they  have  trav- 
eled beneath  a  burning  sky.  Always  the  same  crude  light, 
always  the  same  naked  glowing  disk  in  the  heavens,  implacable, 
devouring.  Day  after  day  they  have  tried  to  escape  that  fire  in 
air  and  sky  that  is  eating  up  their  marrow,  that  puts  fever  into 
their  veins,  that  scorches  their  lips,  that  murders  their  sleep, 
that  paralyzes  their  will  power,  that  prostrates  and  exhausts. 
The  open  prairie,  always  before  their  eyes  the  desert  plain,  with 
its  bare  and  hopeless  monotony.  All  the  colors  revealing  health, 
strength  and  cheerfulness  have  gone.  In  their  place  nothing  is 
visible  but  wan  and  grimy  faces.  The  sun  has  burned  them, 
has  desiccated  them  and  drunk  up  their  blood.  These  are  all 


350  PAX 

countenances  as  of  a  hospital  on  the  march.  All  have  the  color 
of  ashes,  the  same  ashes  which  mark  the  route  here  and  there, 
the  sterile  yellow  of  sand,  the  pallor  of  the  withered  vegetation 
that  is  all  around  them. 

It  is  now  a  whole  month  that  Alejandro  and  Roberto,  at  the 
head  of  an  army  worn  out  by  fatigue,  hunger,  sleeplessness  and 
fever,  pursue  in  the  midst  of  the  devastated  plains,  with  neither 
truce  nor  rest,  the  forces  of  Socarraz,  who  with  extraordinary 
agility  manages  to  concentrate  them,  disperse  them,  to  attack 
and  to  disappear.  Two  days  before,  they  had  succeeded  in  sur- 
rounding the  guerrilla  chief,  and  when,  after  unheard-of  efforts, 
they  prepared  to  close  the  net  and  capture  him  and  his  band,  he 
contrived  by  means  unknown  to  give  them  the  slip  once  more, 
to  evade  his  pursuers.  Thus  the  tracking  of  him  had  to  begin 
all  over  again,  and  just  now,  making  a  new  supreme  effort, 
they  were  for  another  time  in  his  wake,  trying  to  intercept  him 
before  he  should  reach  the  river.  Two  nights  now  the  soldiers 
had  had  no  sleep,  being  constantly  on  the  march,  interrupted 
solely  a  few  times  by  brief  halts  in  order  to  slaughter  a  few  head 
of  cattle  which  then  were  roasted  at  an  open  fire  and  cut  up 
and  eaten  standing.  .  .  .  Some  of  the  soldiers,  with  their  lids 
closed,  with  burning,  troubled  eyes,  with  hurried  respiration, 
and  half  suffocated,  had  fallen  in  their  tracks,  conquered  by  the 
lack  of  sleep,  remaining  on  the  ground  with  mouth  open,  and 
with  congested  faces.  The  officers  had  to  shake  them,  roughly 
awaken  them,  help  them  to  rise,  and  to  remind  them  that  a  strag- 
gler was  a  dead  man.  Then,  picking  up  their  rifles,  these  poor 
fellows  would  get  on  their  feet  without  a  murmur,  shake  the  dust 
from  their  knapsacks,  and  follow  the  others,  tottering,  silent, 
like  sleepwalkers. 

Quite  in  front  there  are  a  number  of  young  fellows,  some  of 
them  smaller  than  the  rifles  they  carry,  bowed  down  over  their 
drums,  over  their  bugles  and  some  bundles  of  swords.  Then,  at 
irregular  intervals,  come  the  troops  proper.  The  officers  who 
raise  swarms  of  gnats  and  other  insects  with  long  wings,  try 
listlessly  to  cheer  on  the  mules  who  with  drooping  ears  let  fall 
big  drops  of  sweat  on  the  burning  sand. 

On  top  of  the  huge  munition  boxes  are  carried  hunks  of  meat 
blackened  by  exposure  to  the  sunlight,  hampers  filled  with  provi- 
sions, piles  of  firewood,  just  what  a  tribe  of  nomads  needs  in 


INCENDIARIES  351 

crossing  the  desert.  A  number  of  mules  come  next,  bearing  no 
load,  but  exhibiting  on  the  loins  and  on  their  protruding  ribs 
shapeless  sores,  monstrous  lumps,  swellings  which  are  oozing 
with  viscous  blood.  Around  them  are  buzzing  clouds  of  mos- 
quitoes. Little  chaps  scarcely  big  enough  to  take  care  of  them- 
selves, are  on  the  backs  of  sumpter  horses  shaking  with  the  mo- 
tions of  the  animals  as  these  proceed  at  the  slow  gait  of  the 
marching  line,  and  these  boys  are  dressed  up  grotesquely  in  cor- 
porals' or  sergeants'  uniforms.  The  camp  women  are  carrying 
hand  baggage,  calabashes,  and  often  on  their  bosoms  their  ema- 
ciated babies  who  in  vain  are  seeking  nourishment  at  their 
mothers'  dried-up  breast.  All  of  these  women  look  like  gipsies, 
with  skin  and  complexion  browned  by  the  sun,  eye  sockets  ab- 
normally enlarged  by  lack  of  sleep  and  rest,  and  also  by  insuffi- 
cient food,  almost  bloodless,  and  stopping  now  and  then  to  wipe 
the  sweat  from  their  perspiring  faces,  which  ^hey  do  with  bed- 
sheets  they  wear  wrapped  around  their  necks.)  Then  they  take 
a  whistling  breath,  and  when  they  have  leisure,  lie  down  with 
their  arms  as  pillows,  or  else  attempt  to  find  some  cooler  spot, 
putting  their  cheeks  against  the  leaves  of  some  wayside  plant. 

Quite  in  the  rear,  alone  by  themselves,  creeping  along,  form- 
ing pitiful  groups,  with  cadaverous  countenances,  come  the 
wounded  and  sick.  Those  who  have  injuries  on  the  feet  are 
walking  with  the  aid  of  staffs  or  stripped  branches  picked  up  on 
the  road,  or  else  are  leaning  on  the  stock  of  their  rifles,  making 
their  way  painfully,  resting  the  foot  often  on  the  uninjured  side, 
with  bent  heads,  bowing  down,  and  fanning  themselves  at  every 
step  with  the  flaps  of  them  hats  that  hide  or  reveal  faces  which 
tell  of  atrocious  sufferings, 

Doctor  Miranda,  afoot  and  mingling  in  the  ranks  with  the 
men,  speaks  encouraging  words  to  the  despairing  and  tired, 
counsels  the  enfeebled  and  sick,  puts  new  heart  into  the  march- 
ing soldiers.  There  he  drops  a  simple  phrase  of  compassion, 
here  he  gives  an  affectionate  pat  on  the  shoulder  of  one  ex- 
hausted, further  on  says  a  pleasant  or  jocular  word,  and  the 
soldiers  begin  to  smile  with  new  hope,  draw  themselves  up  erect, 
feel  refreshed,  ready  for  new  sufferings,  ready  even  for  death. 
And  seeing  the  effect  of  his  words,  of  the  magical  influence  of 
his  voice,  the  priest  himself  is  moved,  and  lavishes  his  own  re- 
ligious faith,  mingled  with  affection,  on  the  men.  The  bril- 


352  PAX 

liancy  of  his  glance  is  veiled  by  the  tears  that  will  come  to  his 
eyes,  and  his  lips  smile  with  an  expression  of  bitterness  and 
sadness.  Sometimes  a  soldier  will  call  him  aside  to  make  some 
confidential  communication,  fervent  confessions,  about  sins  com- 
mitted long  ago,  or  sharp  presentiments,  or  explosions  of  grief 
that  find  a  sympathetic  echo  in  the  depths  of  that  heart  aflame 
with  divine  love.  And  the  priest  will  listen  to  them  in  this  man- 
ner, one  by  one,  during  the  march,  and  will  make  these  souls 
stronger  to  bear  the  inevitable,  will  strengthen  them  the  more  as 
fatigue  tortures  them,  will  deepen  their  hopes  the  more  if  despair 
assails  them,  if  affliction  bears  down  on  them. 

"Poor  fellows!  Just  look,  Alejandro!  "  exclaimed  Roberto. 
"  They  can  scarcely  endure  this  any  longer.  Could  we  not  en- 
camp here?  " 

"  Impossible!  We  should  thereby  lose  the  fruits  of  our  pres- 
ent extraordinary  efforts.  It  is  indispensable  for  us  to  reach 
the  Magdalena  River  before  Socarraz  does.  At  present  we  may 
hope  that  not  a  single  man  of  them  will  escape  us.  I  do  not 
think  they  can  be  far  from  here." 

"  Well,  then,  let  us  go  on." 

They  strained  their  eyes  towards  the  distance.  In  the  torpid 
atmosphere  there  were  floating  particles  of  remote  conflagrations, 
cinders,  soot,  fine  ashes.  A.  bluish  mist  hid  the  horizon  from 
their  gaze. 

"  Yonder  is  Palmares,"  said  Alejandro.  "  It  seems  to  me  I 
can  scent  the  bivouac  of  Socarraz.  Let  us  investigate." 

"  Over  on  the  other  side,  on  the  right,"  said  Colonel  Avila, 
"  I  make  out  a  column  of  thick  smoke  .  .  .  yonder,  quite  in  the 
distance,  and  a  glow  as  of  reddish  waves." 

"  It  is  another  place  set  afire." 

"  Socarraz  scatters  fire  and  pestilence  for  his  allies." 

Certain  black  shapes  could  now  be  remarked  in  the  plains. 
They  were  coming  in  the  direction  of  the  army.  The  clusters  of 
fugitives  grew  in  size  and  number.  They  were  people  who  had 
been  driven  away  without  knowing  where  to  go.  Their  faces 
wore  an  expression  of  terror,  their  arms  were  stretched  out  as  if 
seeking  help.  They  were  unfortunates  who  came  dragging 
along  their  sole  possession  —  a  cow,  or  a  pig.  There  was  an 
old  woman  who  did  not  even  possess  a  head-covering,  carrying 
a  small  child  in  her  arms,  and  next  to  her  a  tall  old  woman  with 


INCENDIARIES  353 

gray  braids  and  the  aspect  of  a  witch,  clutching  some  ragged 
articles  of  clothing  beneath  her  bare  arms  that  were  crossed 
and  recrossed  by  dark  veins.  They  drew  nearer,  they  halted 
with  fear,  glanced  behind  them,  saw  the  sky  alight  with  the 
ruddy  flames,  and  turned  once  more  determinedly,  continuing 
their  road,  desperate,  without  further  reflexion,  making  gestures 
of  complete  desolation. 

Doctor  Miranda  stepped  out  of  the  ranks,  approached  these 
fugitives,  and  spoke  to  them  like  a  father.  He  advised  them 
what  to  do,  offered  them  protection,  and  then  these  unhappy 
people  began  to  relate  what  had  happened  to  them.  They 
showed  the  tall  pillar  of  smoke,  surrounded  the  priest,  knelt  to 
him,  kissed  his  hand,  and  burst  out  in  sobs. 

The  fugitive  villagers  were  received  within  the  army,  and  the 
latter  proceeded  slowly.  Roberto  and  Alejandro,  who  walked  in 
the  rear,  in  order  not  to  abandon  their  wounded  and  sick,  now 
noticed  with  astonishment  a  bivouac  but  recently  abandoned, 
stakes  on  which  slaughtered  cattle  had  been  roasted,  piles  of 
intestines  covered  with  flies,  boiling  in  the  heat  of  the  sun  in  the 
midst  of  huge  pools  of  half  dried  blackish  blood;  and  crowding 
about  all  this,  numbers  of  vultures  that  were  gorged  and  un- 
afraid, as  though  they  were  familiar  companions  to  army  life. 

Further  forward  the  repugnant  odor  of  burned  hides  and 
wool  assailed  the  nostrils.  Between  black  clouds  there  was  still 
smoldering  the  sorry  remains  of  a  little  cabin.  Across  the 
threshold  of  the  reeking  ruins  of  his  humble  little  structure,  face 
buried  in  the  ashes,  lay  a  young  lad,  his  feet  scorched  and  the 
skin  of  the  back  broken  and  swollen  with  fearful  blisters.  A 
number  of  vultures  retired  with  silent  bounds,  glancing  at  the 
meal  they  had  left.  Within  the  straw  were  stretched  out  the 
lifeless  bodies  of  an  old  man  and  a  young  one.  The  old  man, 
whose  biblical  white  beard  was  deeply  stained  with  blood, 
showed  a  terrific  knife  thrust  which  had  pierced  the  forehead 
and  the  cheek,  while  the  young  one,  lying  in  a  pool  of  blood, 
showed  a  strong  back  marked  with  sword  blows,  the  latter 
crossed  with  black  stripes,  and  at  the  neck  a  formidable  slash 
which  had  left  the  head  barely  hanging  by  a  tendon. 

"  That  is  the  signature  of  the  Escorpion,"  remarked  Chispas, 
approaching  the  two  chiefs.  "  He  cannot  be  far,  for  the  blood 
is  still  fresh." 


3*4  PAX 

Some  shots  were  heard  in  the  vanguard,  and  there  was  a 
scuffle.  Casanova  arrived  in  haste. 

"  General,  they  are  in  Palmares,  and  no  longer  here,"  he 
said.  "  They  have  taken  refuge  on  the  river.  We  shall  capture 
them." 

Blasts  on  the  trumpet;  commands;  shouts  of  rage. 

The  trumpet  of  the  lancers  is  heard.  Chispas  hastily  rode 
toward  a  small  group  of  palms  which  rose  on  the  horizon,  close 
to  the  river. 

The  first  battalion  of  Bogota,  with  rifles  held  ready,  started 
at  quick-step,  Casanova  cheering  them  on.  The  battalions  were 
formed  in  fighting  line  and  hastened  forward.  In  the  silence 
of  the  surrounding  landscape  could  be  clearly  heard  the  metallic 
rattle  of  the  cartridges  that  were  being  inserted  in  the  rifles.  A 
breeze  carried  the  fresh  scent  of  the  vegetation  along  the  Mag- 
dalena  River,  and  bore  the  echo  of  shots  fired  somewhere. 

"  Come  on,  boys,"  encourages  Alejandro,  "  a  last  effort,  and 
the  campaign  will  be  over!  " 

They  arrive,  but  they  find  the  camp  of  Socarraz  empty. 
The  guerrilla  men  have  succeeded  in  escaping,  have  even  crossed 
the  Magdalena.  They  fire  upon  the  last  vessels  just  crossing  the 
river. 

In  the  midst  of  these  shots,  Chispas,  red  with  anger  and  in- 
dignation, spurs  on  his  horse,  pricks  him  with  his  lance  to 
induce  him  to  trust  to  the  current  in  pursuit  of  the  guerrilla 
chieftain  who  has  a  second  time  effected  his  flight. 

"  He  has  run  away,  the  accursed  scoundrel,"  shouts  Chispas; 
"  they  were  here,  they  crossed  the  river,  .  .  .  they  kept  boats 
ready." 

There  are  some  shots  fired  from  the  other  shore,  near  the 
forest  border,  and  these  indicate  that  the  enemy  is  in  safety. 
Then  they  hear  the  trumpet  signal  of  Socarraz. 

All  pursuit  is  impossible  and  dangerous.  Alejandro  resolves 
to  strike  camp.  At  the  signal  of  the  trumpeter,  the  soldiers 
align  themselves,  then  break  ranks,  and  run  towards  the  water, 
where  they  bend  over  the  waves,  drink  their  fill  with  much  noise, 
breaking  out  in  shouts  of  merriment,  while  the  women  run  to  the 
shore,  dip  their  calabashes  into  the  water,  and  when  the  clucking 
of  the  inflowing  water  follows,  they  accompany  it  with  bursts  of 
laughter. 


INCENDIARIES  355 

The  waters  of  the  great  river  spread  out  majestic  and  splen- 
did. The  sinking  sun  paints  upon  the  vast  surface  great 
patches  of  scarlet,  and  the  breeze  forms  long  folds  on  the  water. 
The  enormous  disk  of  the  sun  seems  to  be  steeped  in  a  lake  of 
blood.  In  the  lake  the  air  is  already  beginning  to  melt  into  vel- 
vety darkness.  The  details  are  hiding  behind  the  veil  which 
twilight  drops  over  the  scene.  The  tall  rushes  are  undulating 
idly  in  a  lazy  wind.  Roberto,  stretched  out  at  full  length  in  a 
hammock,  saw  the  day  sadly  die  and  be  swallowed  up  in  the 
immense  fog  banks  which  were  empurpled  by  the  sinking  sun 
and  by  the  great  incendiary  fires  blazing  not  far  away.  And 
as  the  night  advanced  and  grew,  the  glitter  of  the  flaming  vil- 
lage likewise  grew.  As  far  as  the  zenith  grand  impenetrable 
clouds  of  sable  smoke  rose  and  displayed  their  red  spirals,  inside 
of  which  twirling  and  twisting  showers  of  white,  glistening 
sparks  were  constantly  carried  upwards  only  to  fall  abruptly 
like  a  cataract  of  fire. 

Not  far  from  the  river,  amidst  a  small  grove  of  palms,  there 
were  two  spacious  houses  which  Socarraz  had  fortified  by 
closing  and  barring  all  the  windows.  In  these  buildings  Socar- 
raz had  left  all  his  wounded  and  sick,  and  these  comprised  all 
those  from  the  army  of  the  Government  and  those  who  had  re- 
mained behind  during  the  shooting  that  afternoon  in  the 
camp. 

It  was  scarcely  possible  to  move  about  in  that  abode  of  pain. 

From  that  great  mass  of  maimed,  disfigured,  and  crippled 
bodies  there  arose  an  incessant  murmur  of  agony,  a  fantastic 
mingling  of  howls,  a  flutter  of  rapid,  feverish  breathing,  rau- 
cous cries,  dull  gaspings. 

In  an  asphyxiating,  heavy  atmosphere  as  hot  as  that  of  an 
oven,  there  floated  the  emanations  of  a  thousand  deadly  diseases, 
of  ulcers  and  gangrene,  the  filth  of  entrails  rendered  poisonous 
by  the  fever,  sweating  bodies,  all  combined-  with  the  penetrating 
odor  of  iodoform. 

The  Sisters  of  Charity  lavished  here,  with  the  doubtful  light 
of  some  tallow  candles,  their  best  attentions  on  these  unfortu- 
nates, without  a  gesture  of  disgust  or  dismay,  calm  and  happy  as 
though  they  were  traversing  a  royal  hall  peopled  with  persons 
enjoying  wealth  and  station,  and  full  of  music  and  perfumes. 

Roberto  and  Alejandro  having  gone  as  far  as  the  entrance 


356  PAX 

to  this  primitive  establishment,  fled  before  the  first  fetid,  super- 
heated breath  issuing  out  of  its  door. 

Seized  with  respect  and  veneration,  Alejandro  remained  on 
the  threshold.  Sister  San  Ligorio  having  passed  him,  he  had 
given  her  a  glance.  From  her  emaciated  face  had  disappeared 
the  traces  of  sadness  and  homesickness.  She  seemed  to  descry 
the  end  of  her  exile ;  in  her  eyes  there  shone  the  light  of  another 
world,  a  glow  of  superhuman  bliss.  Amid  those  shadows  of 
death,  those  moans  of  agony,  she  was  like  a  compassionate 
angel  sent  to  bestow  supreme  consolation  for  supreme  pain. 

Fascinated  by  that  glance,  infected  with  a  heroic  madness, 
inflamed  by  a  sudden  call  for  charity,  Alejandro  resolutely 
penetrated  the  hospital,  and  conquering  all  his  repugnance 
he  drew  near  to  those  human  bodies  in  which  the  spark  of  life 
was  still  aflame,  and  treated  them  all  with  affectionate  consid- 
eration. Most  of  the  patients  were  already  at  death's  door, 
however.  Like  the  humblest  and  most  forlorn  of  the  male  at- 
tendants, and  filled  with  joy  at  the  chance  of  being  able  to  over- 
come his  instincts,  Alejandro  did  all  sorts  of  common  labor: 
stanched  the  flow  of  blood,  distributed  medicines  and  sympa- 
thetic counsel,  and  tended  the  patients,  washing  their  wounds 
and  binding  them  up. 

From  a  dark  nook  of  the  place  there  came  shrill  cries,  min- 
gling wails  with  blasphemies  and  insults.  Alejandro  ap- 
proached. It  was  a  guerrilla  soldier,  wounded  that  afternoon 
during  the  rifle  fire,  who  had  been  unable  to  cross  the  river. 
Recognizing  Alejandro,  he  broke  out  in  horrible  curses. 

Sister  San  Ligorio  came  up,  and  knelt  down  at  the  side  of  the 
bed.  And  her  voice  was  clearly  to  be  heard  amidst  the  shouting 
and  screeching  of  the  man  on  the  bed  —  her  voice  full  of  unshed 
tears  that  penetrated  to  the  very  bottom  of  the  soul  and  caused  it 
to  vibrate  with  the  deepest  and  most  delicate  sentiments.  The 
sister's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  those  of  the  raging  man,  who  at 
last  felt  their  fascination  until  he  ceased  his  furious  outbreak. 
Then  he  fell  to  complaining  of  his  pain  and  his  lot,  and  finally 
began  to  sob  and  ask  for  pity.  With  the  soldier  reduced  to  that 
state,  Alejandro  was  able  to  obtain  from  him  some  details. 

Socarraz,  it  seems,  had  made  good  his  escape  with  all  his  men, 
and  had  safely  crossed  the  river.  He  had  lately  not  moved  with 
his  guerrilla  band  as  rapidly  as  formerly,  because  he  had  been 


INCENDIARIES  357 

embarrassed  in  his  march  by  the  hundred  mules  he  had  with 
him,  loaded  with  coffee  and  hides,  and  had  at  last  been  forced 
to  leave  his  wounded  and  a  stranger  from  whom  he  never  sepa- 
rated himself,  and  who  was  likewise  sick,  in  the  houses  of  Pal- 
meras. 

"A  stranger?"  exclaimed  Roberto,  surprised.  "Where  was 
he  taken  prisoner?  " 

"  The  night  we  picked  up  old  Ronderos  at  the  Union." 

"  Ah,  Bellegarde!  "  remarked  Roberto,  quite  taken  aback. 

"  That  is  what  the  man  said.  .  .  .  Socarraz  did  not  want  to 
let  him  go,  although  he  had  offered  a  considerable  ransom  for 
himself.  I  believe  that  something  must  have  occurred  between 
those  two,  and  that  the  attack  at  the  Union  Club  was  meant  more 
for  Bellegarde  than  for  old  Ronderos." 

"We  must  rescue  Bellegarde!  "  cried  Roberto.  "What  fate 
is  awaiting  him  else !  " 

"  This  night  we  cannot  do  so,"  said  Alejandro,  holding  the 
other  back.  "  How  are  we  to  cross  the  river?  But  to-morrow 
we  shall  use  those  barks  that  Socarraz  has  left  behind  for 
forcing  a  passage,  and  then  we  shall  pursue  him  without  rest 
or  delay  until  we  can  liberate  the  Count,  my  unfortunate,  my 
beloved  friend." 

"  I  bring  here  this  letter,"  said  Casanova,  coming  up  sud- 
denly at  this  juncture,  and  saluting  Alejandro  with  his  sword. 
A  messenger  from  General  Ronderos  handed  it  to  me  dur- 
ing the  time  of  our  attack." 

General  Ronderos  had  sent  them  his  orders  and  some  impor- 
tant news  from  his  camp  at  one  of  the  settlements  in  the  moun- 
tain district,  as  follows: 

He  had  with  a  part  of  his  army  pursued  the  guerrilla  bands 
of  Exposito  Montes,  Neron  Jaspe,  and  Nichols,  forcing  them  to 
separate  from  Socarraz,  and  pushing  them  towards  the  chain  of 
mountains,  where  the  enemy  forces  had  scattered,  leaving  in  the 
possession  of  the  Government  the  larger  part  of  their  provisions 
and  war  material.  The  chiefs  Montes,  Jaspe,  Lagacha  and 
Nichols  had  contrived  to  find  safety,  fleeing  by  way  of  the  moun- 
tains until  they  had  reached  the  lower  Magdalena,  where  they 
had  embarked  for  Barranquilla,  a  place  held  by  the  forces  of 
Landaburo  and  Polanco. 

The  custom  houses  of  Riohacha,  Santmarta,  and  Sabanilla 


358  PAX 

were  in  the  power  of  the  revolutionists,  and  with  the  immense 
resources  and  the  collected  products  of  these  harbors  they  were 
keeping  alive  the  revolution  and  enriching  its  chiefs. 

Landaburo  was  on  a  voyage  to  foreign  parts,  probably  for 
the  purpose  of  selling  those  cargoes  that  had  been  exported  for 
his  account,  and  also  to  buy  vessels  and  munitions.  Polanco 
was  in  Barranquilla,  where  he  was  taking  steps  to  seize  Carta- 
gena and  make  that  his  headquarters,  according  to  rumor. 

Ronderos  ordered  Alejandro  to  march  with  the  forces  under 
his  command  to  general  headquarters,  meeting  him  at  Antioquia, 
where  further  steps  would  be  decided  upon.  The  most  urgent 
and  indispensable  thing  was  to  rush  to  the  defense  of  Cartagena, 
to  free  the  coast  from  guerrilla  power,  wrest  the  river  from  the 
hands  of  the  revolutionists,  and  reestablish  communications  for 
the  Government,  both  with  the  Atlantic  littoral  and  the  outside 
world. 

Concluding  the  reading  of  this  important  missive,  Roberto 
exclaimed : 

"  The  most  pressing  matter,  in  my  judgment,  is  to  rescue  the 
Count.  With  a  detachment  that  you  will  not  refuse  me,  with 
Casanova's  battalion  and  Chispas'  lancers,  I  will  undertake  to 
hand  Socarraz  over  to  you  within  a  fortnight." 

"  I  am  unable  to  do  so,"  replied  Alejandro  in  a  voice  full  of 
sadness,  one  which  betrayed  his  disappointment  and  bitterness. 
"  I  cannot  do  so.  The  orders  leave  me  no  choice  but  to  obey. 
Disobedience  would  be  treason.  .  .  .  Come,  my  poor  boy,  come 
and  help  me  arrange  for  the  march  to  Antioquia  for  to-morrow. 
.  .  .  What  bad  luck!" 

Roberto  crossed  the  camp,  and  in  order  to  obtain  some  hours 
of  sleep  strung  his  hammock  between  two  trees,  close  to  the 
border  of  the  river.  He  stretched  himself  out  in  it,  refreshed  by 
a  cooling  breeze,  lulled  by  the  motion  of  the  river  which  came 
plashing  against  the  bank.  But  he  found  it  impossible  to  sleep. 
The  image  of  his  friend,  prisoner  of  such  a  brute  as  Socarraz, 
badly  treated,  ageing  before  his  time,  dead  perhaps  from  hunger 
and  thirst,  without  doubt  ill  as  well,  dragged  by  the  ferocious 
guerrilla  chief  through  the  pampas  during  inclement  weather, 
forced  to  accompany  him  in  all  his  lawless  and  dangerous  un- 
dertakings, which  he  was  bound  to  attempt  during  his  continu- 
ous flight  before  the  power  of  the  government,  filled  Roberto 


INCENDIARIES  359 

with  dark  forebodings  and  anxiety,  and  in  his  brain  were  crowd- 
ing the  most  desperate  projects  to  free  his  friend.  At  last,  how- 
ever, worn  out  by  fatigue  and  lack  of  sleep,  he  felt  that  drowsi- 
ness was  gradually  gaining  on  him,  and  in  his  lethargy  the 
images  of  Dolores  and  of  Ines,  the  face  of  his  mother,  pale  and 
enfeebled,  with  tears  in  her  anxious  eyes,  became  blurred,  and 
he  sank  into  profound  slumber. 

Suddenly  he  awoke  with  a  start.  He  thought  he  had  heard 
a  shot.  He  tried  to  collect  himself  and  listened  attentively.  No 
sound  was  heard.  He  must  have  been  dreaming.  The  breeze 
carried  to  him  bits  of  fine  ashes,  probably  from  some  camp  or 
bonfires  but  half  extinguished.  And  he  could  hear  the  shouts 
of  the  sentinels  who  passed  along  the  watchword  —  the  steps  of 
the  patrols  who  passed  quietly  through  the  camp,  and  the  trot  of 
the  horse  carrying  the  officer  of  the  day. 

Another  shot.  .  .  .  Yes,  there  was  no  doubt.  He  had  not 
deceived  himself. 

It  must  be  an  attack. 

Roberto  flew  to  the  tent  of  Alejandro,  whom  he  found  grasp- 
ing his  revolver  and  quickly  girding  on  his  sword. 

Chispas,  officer  of  the  day,  came  up  on  horseback. 

"  General,  an  attack.  They  have  dispersed  the  advance 
guard." 

The  noise  was  increasing  every  instant,  like  a  torrent,  as  in 
a  storm  rolling  thunderclaps  become  more  and  more  distinct, 
more  and  more  formidable.  Perucho,  the  trumpeter,  at  the  or- 
ders of  Alejandro,  gives  a  blast.  The  soldiers,  dazed  and  still 
half  asleep,  get  on  their  feet,  run  to  where  their  rifles  are  stacked, 
but  before  they  have  formed  their  ranks,  there  appears  a  black 
mass  at  a  hundred  steps  from  them,  a  cyclone  of  horses  which 
comes  on  thundering  right  into  the  very  center  of  the  camp, 
breaking  small  groups  that  are  just  forming  to  right  and  left, 
cutting  down  some  who  in  a  panic  are  taking  to  the  river,  while 
others,  who  are  recovering  from  their  fright,  are  lowering  their 
bayonets,  or  else  take  random  shots. 

Socarraz,  at  the  head  of  his  numerous  cavalry,  is  advancing 
with  lightning  speed  towards  the  infantry,  and  the  latter,  sur- 
prised, paralyzed  by  the  unexpected,  has  not  yet  succeeded  in 
drawing  itself  up,  so  that  the  audacious  guerrilla  troops  on  their 
swift  animals  are  rapidly  approaching,  and  doing  so  are  throw- 


360  PAX 

ing  burning  bunches  of  straw  at  different  points  where  easily 
inflammable  material  is  stored. 

Alejandro  and  Roberto  are  calling  for  the  trumpeter  Perucho. 
But  he  has  vanished.  In  despair  they  rush  to  the  camp,  rees- 
tablish a  sort  of  order,  encouraging  the  soldiers,  drawing  up  the 
battalions,  massing  the  cavalry  in  pursuit  of  the  fugitives.  The 
squadrons  of  Chispas  are  now  in  pursuit  of  Socarraz's  riders. 

"What  a  disgrace!  "  bellows  Chispas  himself,  while  he  digs 
his  spurs  into  the  haunches  of  his  beast,  "  for  the  Scorpion  to 
surprise  us.  But  look  out!  We  shall  take  him  from  the  side." 

Day  began  to  break,  and  with  the  approach  of  dawn  a  strong 
wind  set  in  which  scattered  the  isolated  flames  over  the  adjoin- 
ing plain  with  its  withered  and  parched  vegetation.  At  various 
points  of  the  camp,  marking  the  track  of  Socarraz's  cavalry, 
sinister  pillars  of  smoke  were  rising  ...  the  sparks  flew  be- 
tween the  straw  stacks,  and  here  and  there  darted  red  tongues 
of  flame  with  a  sinister  gleaming. 

Suddenly,  on  the  summit  of  a  hill,  the  outlines  of  a  horseman 
appeared.  Face,  body,  horse,  lance,  all  stood  out  sharply  from 
the  luminous  background,  the  whole  silhouette  being  intensely 
black. 

"  It  is  he !  "  exclaimed  Chispas  full  of  anger. 

"  Escorpion !  Escorpion !  "  shouted  his  lancers  and  attacked 
the  hillside  with  great  valor. 

Behind  Socarraz  there  now  appeared  a  number  of  other  horse- 
men on  top  of  the  hill,  and  then  it  was  an  entire  squadron  that 
suddenly  stood  out  against  the  ruddy  horizon  in  apparently  in- 
terminable file,  like  black  ghosts  on  the  rosy  skyline. 

Chispas's  horsemen  started  in  a  frenzy  of  bravery  up  the  steep 
ascent  of  the  hill,  and  dextrously  began  to  climb  it.  The 
horses,  full  of  pluck,  required  scarcely  any  spurring. 

But  Socarraz's  lancers  awaited  them  up  on  the  summit,  in 
vastly  superior  positions.  When  the  squadrons  of  Chispas  were 
still  at  a  hundred  paces,  the  line  of  black  ghosts  suddenly  began 
to  become  alive.  Their  little  flags  on  the  long  shafts  of  their 
lances  fluttered  in  the  brisk  wind,  and  sharply  defined  them- 
selves against  the  ruddy  gleam  of  the  air.  Then  they  lowered 
their  weapons  and  with  savage  shouts  rushed  to  the  attack 
against  their  enemies.  Midway  of  the  rising  ground  there  was 
a  terrific  collision.  The  clash  of  steel  upon  steel,  shouts,  neigh- 


INCENDIARIES  361 

ing  and  squealing  horses,  rushing  away  without  their  riders, 
falling  bodies,  rude  blows;  the  slashing  of  sabers  and  machetes, 
red  flashes  of  lances  that  are  lowered  and  bury  themselves  in  the 
flesh,  the  vitals  of  opponents,  then  are  raised  again,  are  cloven 
in  two,  clatter  to  the  ground;  dull,  half-suppressed  noises,  cries, 
curses,  bodies  against  bodies,  wrestling  for  a  deadly  grapple; 
the  fiery  sheen  reflects  the  steel  of  lance  points,  reddened  now 
with  the  blood  of  the  enemy,  as  are  the  banderoles,  the  sabers. 
And  then, —  chaos  ...  a  nondescript  mass  of  struggling,  howl- 
ing, groaning,  shrieking  creatures,  right  in  the  midst  of  powder, 
smoke  and  blood. 

A  dense,  grayish  gas,  mostly  smoke,  wraps  the  whole  scene 
and  its  actors.  Meanwhile  the  conflagration  which  enabled 
Socarraz  to  penetrate  to  the  very  center  of  the  camp,  spreads 
with  awful  speed  in  the  whole  surrounding  plain,  fanned  on  by 
the  strong  gale  now  blowing,  rises  on  the  hillsides,  surrounds 
them  and  reaches  out  farther,  while  the  size  and  fierceness  of 
the  flames  keep  growing.  They  no  longer  lap  at  objects;  they 
open  wide  their  hungry  maws,  and  instantly  devour.  Thicker 
and  thicker  the  smoke  is  getting,  it  seizes  and  asphyxiates  its 
victims.  The  fine,  flying  ashes  blind  people.  The  burning 
fragments  are  carried  through  the  air  and  spread  the  fire  along 
great  distances.  And  still  the  slaughter  up  on  the  hill  is  going 
on  uninterruptedly.  In  dust,  and  flames  and  heat  men  are 
hacking  away  at  each  other.  Horses  that  are  being  scorched 
by  the  flames  rise  on  their  hind  legs,  bellowing  with  torture. 
The  lances  again  and  again  burrow  into  the  flesh  and  come  back 
dripping  with  blood,  are  withdrawn  from  bowels  and  bellies  and 
brains  they  have  pierced.  Riders  are  tottering  in  their  saddles 
and  fall  to  rise  no  more.  On  the  soil  also  there  is  fire,  and 
corpses  are  being  devoured  by  it.  The  odor  of  burning  flesh  is 
sickening.  But  the  horses  at  last  refuse  to  obey  their  riders, 
turn  and  do  not  come  back  to  the  slaughter,  in  spite  of  all 
spurring. 

In  the  camp,  too,  the  fire  spread  with  giddy  swiftness.  It 
ran  on,  flattening  out  through  the  parched  prairie  lands  about, 
blanketed  in  a  whitish  smoke,  slightly  tinged  with  yellow,  dense 
and  biting,  and  soon  after  there  were  heard  thousands  of  slight 
cracklings;  lastly  the  flames  themselves  which,  as  though  in- 
spired by  the  prevailing  rage  for  destruction,  voracious,  domi- 


362  PAX 

nant,  wasteful,  sprang  about  with  amazing  leaps,  walked  in 
whirlpools  of  fire,  ever  advancing,  though  often  springing  back 
for  a  minute  on  their  back  path,  with  capricious  motions,  but  in 
an  instant  appearing  again  in  front,  as  advance  guards  of  ruin 
and  destruction.  And  the  empire  of  the  raging  fire  widened 
every  instant. 

Surprised  in  their  hiding-places  by  the  sudden  inundation  of 
fire,  masses  of  strange  insects,  wild  beasts,  poisonous  reptiles, 
ran  about  on  the  open  prairie  in  all  directions,  crazed  and 
paralyzed  by  the  fury  of  this  unknown  element,  escaping  per- 
haps on  one  side,  and  engulfed  by  it  on  the  other.  Many  of 
these  creatures  in  their  blind  fear  ran  and  ran  until  they 
rushed  direct  into  the  hungry  mouth  of  the  fiery  fiend. 

The  entire  contingent  of  troops  has  been  forced  to  surrender 
the  camp  to  the  power  of  the  flames,  which  pursued  them  at 
every  step.  But  suddenly  there  is  an  outcry,  a  shouting  by  the 
multitude : 

"The  hospital!  " 

Some  women  with  hair  flying,  clad  in  all  sorts  of  rags,  and 
pressing  their  babies  to  their  bosoms,  with  pitiable  voices  beg 
help  for  those  unfortunate  beings  who  are  on  the  point  of  perish- 
ing in  the  flames  to  whose  rage  they  have  been  abandoned. 

Doctor  Miranda  hastens  at  once  to  their  rescue,  heading  a 
squad  of  soldiers  who,  by  prodigious  leaps,  evading  the  danger, 
arrive  in  front  of  the  cluster  of  lightly  constructed  buildings.  A 
thousand  tongues  of  fire  are  already  licking  at  them.  In  an 
instant  they  have  run  along  the  whole  outlines,  have  spread  over 
the  roof,  and  in  a  twinkling  the  whole  roof  bursts  into  flames. 

A  number  of  the  sick  patients  have  appeared,  have  fallen 
down  in  the  doorway,  thus  blocking  the  only  entrance,  stretch 
out  their  blackened  hands,  and  with  throats  paralyzed  with  fear 
and  heat,  utter  hoarse  death  rattles.  Beyond  the  reddish  cur- 
tain of  flames  may  be  indistinctly  seen  the  great  crowd  of  sick 
and  wounded,  writhing  in  the  fiery  furnace,  enlarging  the  great 
heap  of  those  blocking  up  the  entrance,  their  heads  shorn  of 
hair  by  the  fire,  the  faces  as  black  as  charcoal. 

Doctor  Miranda,  resolved  to  sacrifice  himself,  rushed  to  the 
front,  intent  upon  penetrating  to  the  interior.  But  a  hurricane 
of  roaring  flames  kept  him  back.  In  the  space  inside  there 


ALLIGATORS  AND  VULTURES  363 

sounded  a  clamor  of  despair  which  mingled  with  the  bellowing 
of  the  conflagration. 

The  flames,  having  now  encompassed  the  whole  structure, 
rose  in  a  straight  line.  They  gained  constantly  in  volume, 
pushing  each  other,  rising  and  broadening,  parting  and  unit- 
ing, and  sending  even  arrows  of  fire  up  to  the  tops  of  the 
palm  trees.  One  could  hear  the  fan-shaped  fronds  of  the 
trees  shriveling  and  roasting,  then  suddenly  be  devoured  by 
the  element,  and  all  the  foliage  on  the  trees  vanishing  in  the 
fiery  breath,  then  the  buildings  in  full  flame,  the  straw  roofs 
transformed  to  gleaming  ashes,  and  next  the  woodwork  on 
the  roofs,  the  walls,  all  forming  one  huge  flame,  crackling  in 
one  series  of  explosions. 

The  roof  now  crumbled.  The  clamor  of  voices  inside  the 
vast  space  ceased  suddenly,  and  the  timbers,  after  bending, 
sank  into  the  depths,  into  one  fearful  crater  that  kept  on 
sending  up  showers  of  sparks.  .  .  . 

Doctor  Miranda  still  wished  to  try  the  impossible.  But  he 
was  forcibly  torn  away  from  the  scene.  Before  he  yielded, 
however,  he  raised  his  streaming  eyes  to  heaven,  lifted  his 
hands,  let  them  drop  slowly,  with  a  gesture  that  bespoke  both 
leniency  and  pardon,  and  exclaimed  in  a  voice  that  was  shaken 
by  sobs: 

"  Children  of  Jesus  Christ,  redeemed  by  his  most  holy  blood, 
who  are  in  the  death  throes  devoured  by  flames  under  atrocious 
sufferings.  I  grant  you  absolution  in  the  name  of  the  Father, 
the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

ALLIGATORS   AND    VULTURES 

ALEJANDRO  and  General  Borrero  were  busy  emplacing  a  num- 
ber of  cannons.  Since  the  evening  previous  they  had  been 
in  Puerta  Borja,  which  Landaburo  had  abandoned  on  the  ap- 
proach of  Alejandro's  forces.  General  Ronderos  had  followed 
with  the  main  strength  of  his  army  —  eight  thousand  men, — 
marching  by  way  of  the  great  plain  of  Ayapel,  and  had  en- 


364  PAX 

trusted  to  Roberto  the  task  of  going  with  smaller  forces  in 
advance  of  the  army  to  advise  those  in  defense  of  Cartagena 
that  a  numerous  army  would  soon  arrive  to  their  aid.  Roberto 
to  take  the  route  of  Panama,  if  that  should  be  practicable. 
Alejandro  had  been  charged  with  the  work  of  proceeding  through 
the  dense  forests,  reaching  the  river,  fortifying  Puerta  Borja, 
and  obstructing  the  passage  of  the  steamers  which  Landaburo 
had  armed  for  war  purposes. 

f — "  Just  see,  General,"  said  Alejandro,  "  how  Nature  day  by 
day  wins  back  her  domain.  A  few  months  ago  there  was  here 
a  swarming  ant-heap  of  human  beings.  Five  thousand  colon- 
ists were  at  work  in  all  directions.  The  dredges  toiled  at  all 
hours.  The  engines  were  whistling  in  the  woods  quite  cheer- 
fully, and  the  vessels  entering  or  leaving  the  harbor  imparted 
plenty  of  life  and  motion.  It  meant  the  conquest  of  man 
over  the  forest,  over  barbarism.  Now  on  the  contrary,  the  wild 
forest  takes  revenge,  is  even  at  this  short  time  again  surrounding 
these  buildings.  It  stretches  its  arms,  its  twining  plants  out, 
and  is  invading  the  shops,  the  storage  houses,  the  magazines. 
The  alligators  are  once  more  asleep  on  the  shores  without  be- 
ing driven  to  flight  by  the  incessant  coming  .and  going  of  the 
steamers.  Frightened  away  by  us,  they  are  returned  to  enjoy 
again  in  these  surroundings  the  quiet  of  those  epochs  when 
man  and  his  plans  were  both  absent  from  their  quarters. 
Just  like  the  forest,  they  wished  to  reconquer  their  own  domain. 
Only  look,  General,  at  that  big  family  of  them  over  yonder, 
at  the  other  shore,  lazy,  well  fed  with  all  those  dead  bodies 
that  have  floated  down  the  river  after  so  many  fights  of  late." 

"  Please  allow  me,"  interrupted  Borrero,  "  I  want  to  try  a 
shot  at  them  with  this  Hotchkiss  gun.  ...  I  want  to  find  out 
whether  it  has  the  required  reach  and  power." 

He  fired  the  shot.  The  forest  echoed  and  reechoed.  On 
the  broad  beach  across,  the  bomb  burst,  and  a  palm-shaped 
pillar  of  water  spouted  up.  Several  alligators  plunged  swiftly 
into  the  near  water,  raising  their  tails.  Others,  wounded  or 
dying,  were  wallowing  in  the  mire  close  by,  while  still  others 
remained  immovable. 

"  General,  do  you  want  to  join  me  in  a  reconnaissance?  " 

"  Let  us  go,"  returned  Alejandro. 

They  crossed  the  wide  square,  leaving  on  one  side  and  the 


ALLIGATORS  AND  VULTURES  365 

other  the  few  buildings  that  Landaburo  had  not  destroyed,  and 
then  they  made  their  way  to  the  small  hill  which  fronted  the 
river. 

"  From  this  height,"  observed  Borrero,  whose  thoughts  al- 
ways turned  on  military  operations,  "  Landaburo  could  have 
kept  us  away  with  the  guns  he  had.  But  fortunately  he  fled 
as  soon  as  he  received  news  of  our  approach." 

"  That  is  his  habit,"  observed  Alejandro  drily. 

"  He  has  also  shipped  off,  in  the  vessels  of  which  he  could 
dispose,  as  much  of  the  immense  provisions  stored  up  here  by 
the  Canalization  company  as  he  found  it  possible  to  do." 

"  And  that  again  is  in  conformity  with  his  habits.  Quite 
a  humanitarian  and  progressist  program  he  has:  not  to  fight, 
not  to  spill  fraternal  blood,  but  instead  to  load  his  knapsack  up 
with  exportable  fruit." 

As  they  roamed  about  the  territory  so  lately  made  use  of  by 
the  Canalization  enterprise,  they  met  everywhere  with  dam- 
aged steel  rails,  whole  engines  or  pieces  of  machinery  rendered 
useless,  wheels,  pumps,  boilers,  locomotives,  and  a  big  amount 
of  other  material  needed  for  the  enterprise,  wasted,  spoiled. 

"  All  this  useless  destruction,  so  barbarous,  wicked,  and 
carried  out  by  the  alleged  apostles  of  progress,  is  what  pains 
me  most,"  interjected  Alejandro  in  a  melancholy  voice. 

"  Millions  lost,"  said  Borrero. 

"  No,  it  is  not  that.  It  is  because  to  my  mind  it  seems  that 
I  have  lived  with  all  those  ruined  machines,  those  locomotives 
and  engines  now  only  fit  for  the  scrap  heap,  with  those  dredges 
and  boilers,  in  intimate  contact  for  months  and  months,  then 
so  full  of  life  and  useful  activity,  now  silent  and  useless,  and 
they  seem  to  me  to  have  been  friends  and  comrades,  now 
wounded  or  dead.  Their  labor,  their  voice,  their  motion  was 
like  something  of  my  own  self,  poured  into  iron  and  steel. 
They  were  my  own  will  power  and  my  own  energy  distributed 
in  torrents  in  this  camp,  which  gradually  was  losing  its  savage 
character,  domesticating  itself,  being  transformed  into  a  wealthy 
and  happy  city.  To  my  fancy  something  of  me  has  died  with 
the  death  of  all  this." 

While  Alejandro,  weeks  before,  had  gone  on  his  way  towards 
the  Magdalena  and  Roberto  was  crossing  the  Cauca  district, 
General  Ronderos,  on  the  way  towards  the  Atlantic  Coast,  had 


366  PAX 

crossed  the  Cordillera  and  descended  to  the  wide  plains  of 
Bolivar.  The  rainy  season  had  come,  and  a  rough,  persistent 
winter  caused  the  army  much  trouble.  Often  they  were  com- 
pelled to  wade  through  deep  morasses,  and  at  other  times  they 
had  to  walk  through  lagoons  and  lakes  with  the  water  reaching 
up  to  their  waists.  Many  of  these  stagnant  pools  covered  a 
great  area.  The  mire  removed  from  such  springs  or  lagoons 
emitted  pestilential  and  poisonous  miasmas. 

Torrential  and  incessant  downpours,  like  a  deluge,  accom- 
panied them  entire  days  and  even  weeks.  And  the  army  went 
on  with  a  low  horizon  that  enclosed  them  on  every  side,  slip- 
ping along  muddy  stretches,  paddling  in  the  water,  making 
their  painful  way  through  the  mire  and  ooze.  Always  under 
a  gray  and  veiled  sky,  a  sky  hung,  thick  with  compact,  murky 
clouds.  Sometimes  the  morning  would  open  with  clear  weather. 
Then  the  sun  would  scorch  the  shoulders  like  flaming  arrows, 
and  the  soldiers  would  be  almost  suffocated  by  hot  vapors.  But 
then  the  horizon  would  again  be  crowded  with  dark  clouds,  the 
atmosphere  become  thicker  and  thicker,  the  thunder  begin  to 
roll,  and  the  tempest  burst  out  amidst  flashes  of  lightning. 

The  mules  heavily  laden  with  guns  and  ammunition  would 
sink  up  to  their  backs  in  the  semi-liquid  ground,  and  many 
perished  in  the  morass.  The  soldiers  saw  themselves  obliged 
under  such  circumstances  to  unload  the  beasts  of  burden  times 
innumerable,  and  to  carry  their  bulky  burdens  up  to  dry 
places,  a  work  which,  repeated  again  and  again,  unduly 
fatigued  these  men  who  had  been  losing  their  strength  by 
previous  hardships  of  all  kinds.  During  this  long  and  pain- 
ful march  whole  brigades  perished,  the  army  lost  its  entire 
cavalry,  and  Chispas  became  adjutant  of  the  commanding  gen- 
eral. 

During  these  interminable  marches,  as  during  the  sleepless 
nights,  the  army  was  followed,  pursued  and  always  enveloped 
in  a  cloud  of  mosquitoes,  microscopically  tiny  insects,  but 
more  dangerous  than  the  tigers  and  lions  of  those  waste  lands, 
because  they  brought  with  them  from  the  swamps,  their  breed- 
ing places,  the  germs  of  the  fever  that  was  decimating  the 
army. 

"  Tell  Colonel  Milan  Gil  that  I  want  to  see  him!  " 


ALLIGATORS  AND  VULTURES  367 

Ronderos  during  the  march  went  quite  in  the  rear,  depressed, 
thoughtful.  He  carried  in  his  soul  all  these  fatigues  and  hard- 
ships of  his  soldiers.  Gay  and  impenetrable  before  his  sub- 
alterns, he  hid  in  the  depths  of  his  heart  his  bitter  reflections, 
only  to  open  his  heart  in  the  intimate  colloquies  he  had  with 
his  God,  whom  he  asked  for  an  opportunity  to  die  a  death 
worthy  of  a  soldier.  He  wished  to  disappear,  to  be  anni- 
hilated. His  beard  white  as  snow  and  much  longer  than  of 
yore,  his  hair  long,  both  floated  around  his  neck  like  a  stigma 
of  old  age.  His  thought,  always  taken  up  with  the  unforeseen, 
keen  to  scent  danger,  was  agitated  in  the  midst  of  this  wilder- 
ness and  these  tempests  and  tropical  rains,  between  the  sinister 
yesterday  and  the  disastrous  to-morrow.  He  considered  death 
a  happy  solution,  leaving  to  it  the  weight  of  responsibility  and 
the  uncertainties  of  the  future. 

When  Chispas  came,  Ronderos  turned  on  him  his  eyes  that 
were  fatigued  by  broken  nights,  and  which  burned  somberly 
below  a  cadaverous  forehead  from  out  of  deepened  sockets. 

"  Colonel  Chispas,  do  you  know  how  many  losses  we  have 
had  during  the  last  few  weeks?  " 

And  with  a  quiet  voice,  approaching  him,  he  said: 

"  Two  thousand,  yes,  two  thousand  losses.  I  must  make 
them  up  with  the  Grenadiers,  a  battalion  under  the  command 
of  Alejandro  in  Puerto  Borja.  They  are  only  a  thousand 
men,  it  is  true,  but  they  are  worth  ten  thousand  to  us.  Within 
a  month  I  reckon  on  being  before  the  walls  of  Cartagena  to 
set  the  place  free.  You  will  understand  me.  It  is  a  delicate 
mission,  of  decisive  importance  for  the  success*  of  the  cam- 
paign. You  know,  of  course,  that  the  road  is  menaced  by 
the  guerilla  forces  who  are  making  constant  efforts  to  inter- 
cept my  communications  with  the  Government.  I  have  chosen 
you  for  this  mission  because,  besides  being  brave,  you  are 
made  for  the  rough  life  of  the  soldier,  and  I  believe  you  capable 
of  confronting  all  the  obstacles  and  hardships  that  impede 
success.  Alejandro  will  believe  your  words  without  any  writ- 
ten lines.  Have  you  understood  me  well  ?  " 

"Yes,  General,  perfectly.     When  am  I  to  start?" 

"At  once." 

Milan  got  his  horse  and  made  ready  to  leave.  With  most 
profound  pain  Ronderos  saw  this  friend  taking  his  farewell, — 


368  PAX 

a  friend  so  loyal  and  so  amiable,  and  he  perhaps  envied  him 
his  death;  he  felt  he  would  not  see  him  again.  .  .  . 

"Milan!     Milan!" 

And  when  he  joined  him: 

"  When  you  return,  if  you  return,  whatever  you  wish  is 
yours.  And  now  let  me  hug  you." 

Once  more  now  Chispas  crossed  the  savannah,  going  from 
north  to  south,  the  same  route  he  had  just  come  with  the  army, 
and  then  he  made  his  way  into  the  Cordillera,  until  he  had  at- 
tained the  height  of  the  pass  which  leads  to  the  Magdalena. 
Then  he  turned  towards  the  east,  through  the  only  practicable 
path  that  he  could  use.  However,  after  traversing  but  a  short 
part  of  it,  he  perceived  the  camp  of  a  body  of  guerrillas  who 
were  stationed  there  for  the  precise  purpose  of  intercepting 
communications  between  Alejandro  and  Ronderos.  He  left, 
therefore,  his  horse  behind  him,  and  made  his  way  through 
the  mountains  on  foot,  stumbling  now  and  then  upon  huts  of 
the  hospital  service,  where  he  obtained  directions  regarding 
the  right  road  to  follow. 

He  traveled  with  great  swiftness  during  the  morning.  The 
pleasant  weather,  the  fresh  breeze  from  the  mountain,  and  the 
shade  of  the  trees,  allowed  him  to  make  the  descent  from  the 
summit  of  the  range  without  fatigue  and  shortly  after  the 
noon  hour  he  had  arrived  at  the  hot  valley  through  which 
the  Magdalena  runs. 

Here  he  calculated  that  the  river  could  be  but  a  few  miles 
distant,  and  that,  therefore,  he  should  be  able  to  cross  before 
nightfall  the  plain  covered  by  woods  which  separated  it  from 
the  camp  of  Alejandro. 

It  was  virgin  forest  that  covered  this  plain,  never  trodden 
by  human  foot,  enriched  by  centuries  of  alluvial  deposits,  vivi- 
fied by  the  warm  sod  and  showing  a  wealth  of  gigantic  trees 
which  here,  in  the  moist  warmth  of  winter,  had  attained  a  great 
height  in  the  silence  of  their  impenetrability. 

Coming  under  the  shade  of  this  foliage,  Chispas  received  at 
once  an  impression  of  coolness  which  contrasted  with  the  al- 
most insupportable  heat  outside.  Suddenly  he  saw  his  hori- 
zon limited  by  rows  upon  rows  of  trees.  The  ground  was  cov- 
ered by  a  thick  carpet  of  dried  leaves;  here  and  there  were 
pools  overgrown  with  aquatic  plants,  and  he  perceived  an 


ALLIGATORS  AND  VULTURES  369 

odor  that  was  sweetish  and  repugnant,  an  odor  of  immense 
vegetable  decay,  the  miasma  of  fever. 

At  this  hour  Nature,  as  though  prostrated  by  the  heat,  seemed 
asleep, — dead.  There  reigned  a  solemn  and  terrifying  silence, 
as  in  the  ruins  of  a  cathedral. 

For  an  instant  this  wilderness  filled  his  mind  with  anxiety. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  it  weighed  on  him  with  a  formidable, 
paralyzing  burden.  But  he  shook  off  these  sinister  reflexions 
entirely,  and  went  forward,  full  of  energy,  bold  and  resolute. 

Chispas  went  on  with  difficulty,  because  his  feet  sank  deeply 
into  the  layers  of  dry  leaves,  and  he  had  to  leap  constantly  from 
spot  to  spot  to  avoid  the  miry  or  swampy  places;  or  else  he 
was  kept  back  by  deep  holes  and  gullies  filled  with  rain  water 
or  decayed  vegetation,  by  ditches,  by  fallen  tree  trunks,  by 
springs  of  water  or  by  twining  plants  and  climbing  vines  that 
entangled  his  limbs  and  which  he  often  had  to  cut  loose  with 
his  machete.  A  cloud  of  wasps,  buzzing  around  him,  followed 
him,  harassed  and  stung  him,  covering  him  with  blisters  and 
sores  on  hands  and  face. 

But  nevertheless,  he  went  along  with  vigor  and  full  of  hope. 
He  was  stimulated  by  the  wish  to  welcome  his  friends  in  Ale- 
jandro's camp,  and  he  already  could  see  himself  returning  with 
them,  at  the  head  of  the  Grenadiers,  pressing  the  hand  of 
the  General,  who  with  gracious  words  would  thank  him  for 
the  great  service  rendered  the  army.  He  recalled  the  gen- 
eral's promise:  "If  you  return  you  may  have  anything  you 
wish!  "  After  so  many  sacrifices,  he  would  ask  for  his  dis- 
charge. He  would  return  to  his  little  house  at  La  Laguna. 
He  saw  Damiana,  with  a  baby  in  her  arms,  come  out  to  wel- 
come him  with  smiles  and  sobs. 

Early  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  sun  began  its  home  journey, 
Nature,  waking  from  her  lethargy,  began  to  give  evidence  of 
life.  From  the  soil,  from  the  pools,  from  the  waste  spots,  from 
the  curtains  of  greenery,  from  the  highest  foliage,  there  came 
surging  down,  little  by  little,  screams,  shrieks,  roars,  bellows, 
grunts,  chirpings,  murmurings, —  the  whole  fervor,  the  palpita- 
tion of  a  primitive  and  potent  Nature. 

He  came  to  a  palm  grove.  The  pointed  shoots  lifted  them- 
selves up  skywards  like  sharp  needles,  and  unfolded  their 
fan-like  leafage  in  a  refulgent  plenitude  of  light.  The  dry 


370  PAX 

leaves  fell  all  about  the  trunks  in  great  number,  while  the 
wind,  caressing  the  green  plumes,  produced  in  them  a  strange 
shiver,  as  of  live  beings. 

He  still  rushed  on  with  anxiety,  because  he  noticed  that 
the  sun,  which  easily  stole  in  between  the  open  spaces  of  the 
palm  trees,  began  to  take  on  orange-hued  tones  that  covered 
the  whole  trunks,  from  top  to  root,  with  a  golden  burnish. 
And  the  shadows  he  threw  when  he  came  to  open  spaces,  was 
becoming  longer  and  longer. 

Should  he  have  to  continue  his  journey  by  night  time, 
through  this  mysterious  forest,  exposed  to  all  the  perils  of  the 
unknown,  perhaps  to  attacks  by  wild  beasts,  to  snake  bites? 

Filling  him  with  affright  there  came  to  his  ears,  repeated 
a  thousandfold,  cries  almost  articulate,  ajid  about  which  it  was 
impossible  to  say  whether  they  were  sorrowful  human  plaints 
or  the  roars  of  savage  beasts.  A  little  later  there  could  be 
noticed,  high  up  on  the  top  of  the  highest  branches,  a  whole 
crowd  of  monkeys,  flinging  themselves  from  branch  to  branch, 
from  trunk  to  trunk,  holding  on  with  their  coiled  tails,  swing- 
ing slowly  between  one  tree  and  the  next,  stretching  out  their 
long  hairy  arms,  until  they  could  grasp  the  lower  branches 
strong  enough  to  bear  their  weight.  When  they  perceived 
Chispas,  they  stopped  long  enough  to  examine  him  carefully, 
watched  him  with  surprise,  sat  down  meanwhile  or  hid  among 
the  dense  foilage,  uttering  shrill  grunting  sounds,  and  making 
grotesque  grimaces. 

Flocks  of  birds  seeking  their  nests  were  picking  at  leaves 
and  filling  the  trees  with  noisy  chirpings. 

Night  closed  in.  The  wind  shook  with  greater  force  the 
overhanging  cupola  of  foliage.  Those  noises  which  during 
the  afternoon  hours  had  peopled  the  immense  solitude  now 
changed  in  kind.  They  became  strange  and  melancholy. 
There  was  a  strenuous  fervor,  an  infinite  variety  of  sounds 
everywhere,  whistling  sounds,  acute  and  as  though  they  were 
watchwords  and  signals  to  be  on  the  alert,  predominating, 
mingling  with  monotonous  tunes,  croakings,  cacklings,  owl 
hootings,  quacking  of  aquatic  birds,  roars  of  savage  beasts. 

In  the  obscurity  there  were  flying  all  about,  scattering  thin 
flashes  or  patches  of  greenish  light,  myriads  of  fire  flies  and 
glow  worms.  Along  the  trunks  of  powerful  trees,  as  upon 


ALLIGATORS  AND  VULTURES  371 

graves  in  a  cemetery,  were  lit  and  extinguished  with  equal 
rapidity,  fugitive  phosphorescent  gleams. 

Little  by  little,  despite  his  fearlessness,  Chispas  felt  fear 
creep  into  his  soul.  He  attempted  to  hasten  his  steps,  but  at 
each  turn  he  tottered  and  fell.  Then  the  damp,  dead  foliage, 
clinging  to  his  feet  and  legs,  began  to  feel  like  the  creeping 
skin  of  reptiles.  The  fire  flies  seemed  to  be  the  fierce  gleam- 
ing of  tigers'  eyes;  the  twining  plants  became  hands  that  at- 
tempted to  strangle  him,  and  behind  the  trees  he  thought  he 
saw  phantoms  in  ambush  ready  to  assail  him. 

After  hours  and  hours  of  marching,  his  strength  began  to 
give  out,  and  his  body  demanded  some  rest.  But,  with  supreme 
resolution,  his  feet  sore  and  his  hands  bleeding,  he  still  went 
on.  Every  moment  or  so  the  sky  became  visible  through  the 
curtain  of  foliage  overhead,  and  he  then  saw  the  stars  shin- 
ing. He  made  an  attempt  to  get  his  bearings,  and  to  fix  his 
whereabouts  at  the  time.  When  he  did  so,  he  became  aware 
that  he  was  again  in  the  palm  grove  he  had  left  hours  before. 

With  anger,  with  despair,  with  intense  disappointment,  he 
then  felt  that  after  his  great  efforts,  and  after  such  crushing 
fatigue,  he  had  been  moving  about  all  the  time  without  advanc- 
ing a  single  step.  He  had  lost  his  way.  Discouragement 
seized  him.  Why  should  he  struggle  any  longer?  Better  aban- 
don himself  to  his  unhappy  fate, —  let  death  overtake  him. 
.  .  .  But  no,  rest,  sleep  would  bring  back  his  strength.  Why 
should  he  tire  himself  continuing  his  painful  march  during 
the  night?  To  what  end  was  he  to  spend  his  forces  uselessly? 
When  day  came,  he  could  easily  ascertain  his  location,  reach 
the  border  of  the  river  and  then  follow  a  fixed  and  safe  direc- 
tion. 

He  calmed  down  and  became  again  master  of  himself.  And 
he  stretched  himself  out  on  the  ground,  at  the  foot  of  a  palm 
tree,  and  in  spite  of  the  hunger  he  felt  he  soon  fell  fast 
asleep. 

It  was,  however,  an  unquiet  sleep,  tormented  by  horrifying 
visions.  It  seemed  to  him  that  cold  reptiles  were  crawling  all 
over  his  body;  that  a  big  snake  had  encircled  his  throat  and 
was  choking  him ;  that  a  savage  beast  was  devouring  his  bowels. 
Each  one  of  these  terrible  dreams  meant  for  him  a  horrible 
pain  or  an  awful  foreboding.  Suddenly  he  awoke.  He  had 


372  PAX 

felt  an  ardent  breath,  a  fiery  vapor  upon  his  face.  He  quickly 
collected  his  senses  and  in  the  uncertain  light  of  the  stars 
and  of  the  glow  worms  he  was  able  to  make  out  a  tiger  which, 
surprised,  made  a  leap  backwards,  gave  a  tremendous  roar, 
and  then  ran  to  safety  in  the  surrounding  thicket. 

Seized  with  terror,  and  maddened,  Chispas  broke  out  in  a 
run,  a  run  without  aim,  without  object,  simply  a  run  to  flee, 
to  escape  this  accursed  and  evil  forest.  Although  exhausted,  he 
felt  once  more  an  extraordinary  amount  of  vigor.  His  muscles 
took  on  the  elasticity  and  resilient  power  of  steel.  He  swept 
aside  the  twining  plants  that  were  hindering  him  in  his  flight; 
he  used  his  hands  in  tearing  at  thorns  and  brushwork,  though 
it  brought  him  more  scratches  and  wounds;  with  tireless  energy 
he  bounded  over  great  water-filled  holes  and  tree  trunks;  lying 
prone,  he  knocked  his  head  against  trees  and  slid  through 
narrow  spaces  like  a  reptile;  he  got  up,  fell  again,  and  got  on 
his  feet  again  in  order  to  continue  his  wild  run.  Nothing 
could  stop  or  hinder  him.  Nothing  in  the  shape  of  an  ob- 
stacle was  able  to  keep  him  back  from  his  insane  course. 

When  day  began  to  dawn  dimly,  the  moon  rose.  It  filled 
the  forest  with  new  terrors  and  mysteries.  The  moonlight 
diffused  a  half  shadow  in  which  a  pale  clearness  of  ghostly 
white  trembled,  veiling  objects, —  which  painted  spots  of  strange 
luminousness  upon  tree  trunks,  leaving  the  remainder  in  inky 
blackness.  It  lit  up  in  patches  the  stagnant  pools,  and  was 
reflected  by  them  in  lugubrious  tints.  It  designed  in  the  thick 
air  angular,  grotesque  or  tragical  figures.  It  seemed  to  share 
with  the  forest  its  own  spirit  and  life,  a  life  made  up  of 
melancholy  and  sadness. 

The  presence  of  this  vague  light,  and  more  still  his  anxieties 
and  forebodings,  awoke  in  him  afresh  the  sense  of  reality  and 
restored  his  reason.  He  halted  in  his  mad  run.  In  spite  of 
his  feverish  excitement,  his  body  felt  cold  as  ice.  He  felt  him- 
self all  over.  He  was  soaking  wet.  He  concluded  that  he 
must  have  fallen  into  the  water,  without  becoming  conscious 
of  it.  The  bites  of  insects  hurt  him  greatly.  His  long  ab- 
stinence from  food,  aggravated  by  violent  exercise,  gave  him 
cramps,  a  deadly  pain,  an  approaching  annihilation  of  his 
whole  being.  His  throat  felt  like  live  coal.  Now  that  he  had 
again  calmed  down,  he  looked  for  water  to  quench  his  in- 


ALLIGATORS  AND  VULTURES  373 

tense  thirst.     When  he  found  it,   he   drank  some  mouthfuls 
with  avidity,  then  fell  down  on  the  ground  with  mouth  open. 

The  moon  disappeared  and  the  shadows  reigned  alone  again. 
His  terrible  visions  returned,  the  reptiles,  the  savage  beasts. 
Sleep  which  delivered  him  up  defenseless  to  the  poison  of  the 
serpents,  to  the  teeth  of  the  tiger,  inspired  him,  therefore,  with 
greater  terror  even  than  did  the  dangers  that  had  just  been 
torturing  him.  Sleep  he  now  looked  upon  as  his  very  worst 
foe.  So  that  now  there  arose  a  bitter  struggle  between  his — 
exhausted  body  and  the  sleep  he  needed  so  badly.  Sleep 
seemed  to  him,  in  fact,  an  invincible  monster  that  crept  con- 
stantly nearer,  fascinating  and  tempting  him,  drawing  him  on, 
closing  his  eyelids,  paralyzing  his  limbs,  robbing  him  of  his 
will  power,  and  laying  him  out  flat  and  powerless  on  the 
ground.  To  resist  sleep,  therefore,  he  made  superhuman  ef- 
forts, summoning  the  last  remnant  of  his  energy.  He  moved 
constantly  from  one  side  to  another,  he  wounded  himself  pur- 
posely, he  got  up,  he  knocked  his  head  against  the  tree  trunks, 
he  rubbed  the  sores  made  by  insect  bites  until  they  bled  anew, 
and  in  the  midst  of  darkness  he  continued  these  struggles  for 
hours. 

At  last  that  night  of  interminable  minutes  drew  to  a  close. 
Light  came.  The  forest  intoned  its  morning  hymn.  A  thrill 
of  hope,  a  vibration  of  rejoicing,  a  symphony  of  chirpings,  of 
trills  and  merry  songs  enwrapped  the  unfortunate  man,  pene- 
trated him,  lent  him  new  support  and  relief,  pushed  him 
onward  on  his  road. 

From  the  bottom  of  his  soul  Chispas,  kneeling  humbly,  ad- 
dressed a  short  but  fervent  prayer  to  God,  lifted  up  his  spirit 
and  implored  to  be  led  out  of  this  cruel,  murderous  wilder- 
ness, and  then,  filled  with  a  new  faith,  he  resumed  his  way. 

After  a  short  march,  however,  he  felt  that  his  body  in  no 
way  answered  to  the  virility  of  his  spirit,  and  that,  having 
already  given  all  of  his  strength,  he  was  worn  out,  prostrated, 
spent.  He  discovered  that  there  was  nothing  in  his  vigorous 
will  power  for  his  enfeebled  body  to  lean  on,  and  this  con- 
viction fixing  itself  in  his  mind,  he  began  to  walk  with  extreme 
slowness.  He  was  tottering  like  a  drunken  man,  supporting 
himself  against  the  trees,  grasping  with  uncertain  hands 
branches  and  twigs.  He  felt  in  his  legs  a  strange  weight,  some- 


374  PAX 

thing  which  did  not  come  from  his  own  body,  that  seemed 
like  two  big  lumps  of  iron  that  he  was  forced  to  tear  out  of 
an  uneven  soil.  And  between  the  two  temples  there  was  ap- 
parently driven  a  red-hot  nail,  while  throughout  the  entire 
frame  an  itching,  darting  pain  was  shooting  to  and  fro  cease- 
lessly, comparable  to  thousands  of  needles  pricking  flesh  and 
nerves. 

Through  his  brain,  burning  with  fever,  there  were  crossing 
terrifying  visions.  He  was  dreaming  in  plain  daylight. 
Changing  rapidly,  there  passed  before  his  eyes  scenes  either 
horrible  or  overpoweringly  sweet.  Sometimes  the  images  were 
of  death,  again  of  the  happy  past,  of  his  wedding  in  the 
chapel  at  Sauzal,  of  the  caresses  of  his  wife,  of  the  newly-born 
baby  that  held  out  its  arms  to  him.  .  .  . 

He  fell  on  the  ground.  He  tried  to  shout,  to  ask  for  help. 
But  only  an  imperceptible  sob  would  rise  to  his  throat,  a 
harsh  and  raucous  rattle.  He  was  overcome,  exhausted,  dying; 
only  his  overexcited  fancy  was  active,  moving  with  lightning- 
like  swiftness. 

He  felt  the  approach  of  death,  the  definitive,  irrevocable  sen- 
tence. He  saw  himself  stretched  out  on  his  own  bier,  lying 
there  with  open  eyes,  while  the  crows  were  making  a  meal  of 
him,  or  while  wild  creatures  devoured  him.  And  what  then 
would  become  of  his  family?  Then  he  saw  Damiana,  holding 
the  little  child  by  the  hand,  begging  alms  from  door  to  door. 
Both  were  in  rags.  The  baby  was  crying,  but  people  drove 
them  away  with  scorn.  Sobs  began  to  convulse  him,  sobs  that 
shook  his  breast;  but  they  were  mute  sobs,  for  his  throat  was 
unable  to  produce  sounds.  Tears  were  rolling  down  his  burn- 
ing cheeks. 

Then  he  saw  a  livid,  ghastly  face,  which  looked  at  him  with 
squinting  eyes.  Socarraz!  .  .  .  He  struck  Damiana,  lashed 
the  child  with  a  whip,  while  the  tiny  creature  begged  him 
weepingly  to  desist.  .  .  .  No,  he  did  not  strike  Damiana,  this 
image,  but  he  caressed  her  and  dragged  her  into  his  arms,  .  .  . 
and  she?  .  .  .  She  smiled  upon  him  with  her  mouth  so  rosy 
and  fresh, —  showing  those  two  rows  of  magnificent  teeth  that 
lent  so  much  expression  to  her  smile. 

No,  he  did  not  wish  to  die.  He  supported  himself  upon  his 
two  trembling  hands.  Half  reassured,  he  raised  his  eyes  to 


ALLIGATORS  AND  VULTURES  375 

God  and  in  a  prayer  of  supreme  devotion  he  pleaded  that  his 
own  life  might  be  spared  him,  and  that  his  wife  and  young 
child  be  given  protection,  those  two  who  were  pieces  of  his 
very  heart,  who  without  him  would  die  of  misery  and  loneli- 
ness ...  or  that  the  other  one,  that  Socarraz  might  be  snatched 
away. 

And  he  began  anew  to  move  his  limbs,  to  crawl  forwards, 
spending  whole  hours  in  advancing  a  short  distance. 

In  the  trees  he  heard  noisy  flutterings,  sinister  croakings,  and 
he  saw  a  flock  of  vultures  that  extended  their  sharp  bills  above 
the  foliage  and  followed  him.  It  was  an  omen  of  death  it- 
self. But  a  sudden  resignation,  a  supreme  consolation  came 
down  from  heaven  to  him,  and  fortified  his  oppressed  spirit. 
Death,  after  all,  meant  liberty,  meant  the  end  of  his  troubles 
and  pains,  meant  union  with  God,  the  beginning  of  a  better 
life.  He  would  struggle  no  more.  He  would  gladly  await 
Kis  dissolution.  .  .  .  And  he  remained  thus  a  long  while,  quite 
at  ease,  commending  his  soul  to  the  Creator,  and  entrusting  the 
beings  he  loved  to  his  care,  making  profession  of  contrition,  of 
L  supreme  love  and  devotion. 

Suddenly  he  heard  the  whistle  of  a  steamer.  Was  that  the 
delirium  of  fever?  No,  the  whistling  was  now  repeated,  came 
nearer,  clear  and  precise.  Then  he  also  heard  trumpet  blasts, 
like  a  prelude  to  salvation,  like  a  greeting  from  life  itself. 

"Ah,  .  .  .  the  camp!" 

The  noise  made  by  the  wheel  of  a  steamer,  the  waves  which 
struck  against  the  embankment,  and  the  threshing  sound  made 
by  the  engines  of  the  vessel  coming  nearer  and  nearer,  were 
heard  in  front,  and  then  grew  faint  and  fainter  in  the  distance. 
Hope,  cheerfulness,  the  ardor  and  the  desire  to  live  put  into 
his  enfeebled  body  a  last  spark  of  energy,  a  strength,  a  force 
unhoped  for. 

He  crawled  to  the  bank  of  the  river,  and  then  fell  down 
on  the  shore.  A  sleep  that  was  the  outgrowth  of  fever  and 
complete  exhaustion  seized  him,  dominated  him,  clamped  him 
down  to  the  spot,  robbed  him  of  all  power  of  motion. 

The  flock  of  vultures  came  down,  and  began  to  examine  him, 
stretching  out  their  bare  necks,  making  singular  leaps,  half 
opening  their  wings.  There  began  to  appear  at  the  border  of 
the  river  the  enormous  head  of  an  alligator,  with  its  jaws  open. 


376  PAX 

It  sunk  its  claws  into  the  bank,  drew  its  back  out  of  the  water, 
and  set  out  on  its  way  across  the  san  d  with  waddling  steps. 

The  vultures,  seeing  this  rival  about  to  rob  them  of  their 
prey,  became  alarmed  and  uttered  a  series  of  croaks,  directing 
their  iron  bills  against  their  foe. 

The  alligator  with  a  deep  bite  seizes  Chispas  by  one  of  his 
legs  and  drags  his  body  behind  him  by  a  series  of  tugs. 

The  vultures  crowd  together,  croaking  furiously,  whirl  about 
and  perform  a  grotesque  dance. 

In  the  shallower  water  of  the  river  border  are  appearing 
other  alligators. 

Suddenly  the  body  of  the  unfortunate  Chispas,  the  alligator 
that  has  seized  him,  and  those  other  alligators  that  are  wait- 
ing and  are  going  to  dispute  possession  with  him  at  the  bottom 
of  the  river,  all  disappear  together  below  the  surface  of  the 
water,  so  silently,  so  smoothly  that  not  even  the  grass  and 
weeds  growing  along  the  shore  are  disturbed  by  it  all. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE   FLYING   DUTCHMAN 

AFTER  passing  through  a  large  part  of  the  country  and  mak- 
ing brief  halts  at  the  towns  of  Cartago,  Buga  and  Cali,  Roberto 
had  arrived  at  Buenaventura,  accompanied  by  Casanova.  He 
was  discharging  the  commission  which  General  Ronderos  had 
entrusted  him  with, —  that  of  bringing  news  of  the  approach 
of  the  army  of  those  small  forces  defending  Cartagena  against 
the  Revolutionists. 

From  the  nature  of  the  road  he  knew  that  he  would  find 
it  very  difficult  to  get  to  Panama,  because  if  during  normal 
times  there  came  to  Buenaventura  only  an  average  of  two 
vessels  per  week,  now,  because  of  the  Revolution,  it  was  but 
very  rarely  that  any  vessel  at  all  touched  at  that  small  harbor. 
The  little  town,  previously  showing  only  slight  indication  of 
prosperity,  was  now  suffering  from  the  consequences  of  the 
war.  Its  streets  were  deserted,  its  harbor  lifeless,  its  ware- 
houses and  shops  empty  and  locked  up,  and  it  bore  all  the 


THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN  377 

signs  of  a  total  paralyzation  of  trade  and  shipping,  of  general 
poverty  and  complete  stagnation. 

Roberto  was  consumed  with  impatience  in  view  of  the  im- 
possibility of  continuing  his  journey,  and  in  his  anxiety  he 
passed  hours  and  hours  of  his  time  at  the  seashore,  staring  at 
the  bay  where  the  lazy  waters  came  slowly  up  to  his  seat  until 
the  wavelets  would  lap  his  feet  and  then  again  retreat,  leaving 
bare  an  extensive  shore  littered  with  all  sorts  of  filth  and  rub- 
bish, and  which,  heated  by  the  tropical  sun,  rendered  the  air 
unwholesome  and  infected  with  the  germs  of  serious  diseases. 

On  a  certain  morning,  after  one  of  those  squalls  frequent 
along  the  coast  of  the  Pacific,  he  sallied  forth  as  usual  to  scan 
the  horizon,  and  soon  he  saw  in  the  offing,  where  he  had  so  often 
gazed  in  vain,  a  small  black  cloud,  no  larger  than  a  speck, 
which  stood  out  from  the  diaphanous  crystal  of  the  sky.  A  ves- 
sel ?  Little  by  little  the  dark  spot  began  to  define  itself,  gaining 
substance,  and  after  he  had  waited  anxiously  some  time  longer, 
there  became  visible  two  points  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  two 
smokestacks  crowned  by  black  plumes.  Soon  the  hull  of  the 
ship  could  be  seen,  then  the  main  mast,  the  rigging,  and  at  last 
the  flag  and  the  two  white  ridges  raised  by  the  keel  as  it  cleft 
the  waters  of  the  bay  with  its  steel  edge. 

Quite  absorbed  by  his  observations  Roberto  noticed  how 
the  vessel,  after  describing  an  elegant  curve,  stopped,  and 
next  he  heard  the  creaking  of  the  chains  being  paid  out,  the 
clatter  of  iron  upon  iron,  and  the  drop  of  the  anchor  as  it  sank 
into  the  depths  of  the  bay. 

She  was  a  German  merchant  vessel,  with  an  uncertain  des- 
tination, to  return  home  after  the  lapse  of  six  months.  She 
was  to  make  a  stop  at  Panama,  but  not  to  carry  passengers. 
Nevertheless,  Roberto  entered  into  amicable  relations  with  the 
captain  commanding  the  ship,  and  obtained  the  favor  of  him 
(after  winning  his  good  will,  and  by  dint  of  much  persuasive 
eloquence),  of  being  taken  on  board  for  a  passage  to  Panama. 

While  they  were  still  in  the  bay  of  Panama  it  became  known 
on  board,  through  the  harbor  officials,  that  the  city  was  in 
the  hands  of  the  revolutionists  and  that  it  was  commanded  by 
General  Pericles  Azucararse  (alias  the  mulatto,  Jose  Dolores). 

This  presented  a  new  and  possibly  insuperable  obstacle. 
Roberto  could  not  disembark  without  falling  a  prisoner  into 


378  PAX 

the  hands  of  the  guerilla  chief.  The  captain  of  the  vessel 
came  once  more  to  his  aid,  saving  him  from  his  predicament. 
Indeed,  he  wrote  to  the  local  authorities  to  the  effect  that  he 
needed  to  send  a  subaltern  of  his  to  Colon  in  connection  with 
some  matters  concerning  the  requirements  of  the  ship.  Thus 
Roberto  was  able  to  leave  the  ship  in  the  disguise  of  an  offi- 
cer of  the  merchant  marine,  contriving  to  slip  past  the  harbor 
master  unnoticed  and  cutting  short  with  a  curt  and  brief  "  hum, 
yes,"  all  dangerous  conversation  regarding  his  incognito. 

The  Government  forces,  defeated  in  Panama,  had  fortified 
themselves  in  Colon,  so  that  the  legitimate  government  was  still 
in  power  in  the  latter  city.  There  Roberto,  in  contrast  with 
the  past  obstacles  and  disappointments,  had  a  pleasant  sur- 
prise. He  found  that  the  cruiser  Alcon,  purchased  from 
Gacharnah  by  the  war  secretary  in  Bogota,  had  arrived  in 
Colon  the  night  before.  The  commissioner  who  had  brought 
the  vessel  did  not  know  exactly  to  whom  to  deliver  her.  Rob- 
erto, who  easily  procured  3fl  the  authorization  required  for 
the  case  from  the  Government,  readily  took  over  command  of 
the  vessel  as  a  Colombian  cruiser. 

The  crew  was  German,  and  was  under  the  immediate  orders 
of  Captain  Muller.  The  latter  was  a  good-tempered  jovial 
elderly  man,  a  votary  of  Bacchus,  of  delicate,  feminine  features, 
and  gifted  with  amiable  courtesy. 

The  captain  then  placed  himself  at  the  disposal  of  Colonel 
Avila,  and  they  both  proceeded  to  investigate  the  vessel  from 
stem  to  stern.  Roberto  noticed  with  surprise  the  luxury  which 
reigned  everywhere  in  this  vessel,  now  turned  into  a  cruiser. 
There  were  mysterious  nooks  and  cabins,  a  labyrinth  of  pas- 
sages, a  soft  half-light  everywhere,  a  perfumed  atmosphere, 
thick  curtains,  rich  carpets,  downy  divans,  marble  toilet  tables, 
and  he  was  struck  above  all  by  the  peculiar  kind  of  refinement 
overhanging  all.  His  expert  eyes  could  not  fail  to  perceive  the 
exquisite  harmony  of  colors  and  lines  everywhere  visible. 

They  came  to  a  vast  cabin  on  the  ceiling  of  which  Roberto 
could  not  help  admiring  an  allegorical  panel  representing 
Music.  It  was  the  work  of  a  master.  At  the  back  of  this  re- 
markable room  there  stood  a  beautiful  grand  piano,  made  of 
the  rarest  woods,  with  rich  incrustations,  and  on  which,  in  gold 
letters  and  arabesques  was  traced  the  inscription:  "  The  Flying 


THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN  379 

Dutchman."  And  Roberto  instantly  remembered  that  one  of 
Wagner's  operas  was  thus  called. 

"  Is  that  the  name  of  the  piano?  "  Roberto  asked  the  captain, 
who  had  followed  him  with  unsteady  feet. 

"  No,  the  name  of  the  vessel  itself;  its  former  name,  .  .  . 
when  it  still  belonged  to  the  King  of  Bavaria.  ..." 

"His  gunboat?" 

"  Not  exactly  ..."  responded  the  captain,  and  began  at 
once  with  enthusiasm  to  narrate  the  history  of  his  vessel,  saying: 

"  Ah,  if  it  were  not  for  the  memories  evoked  by  it,  the 
memories  which  it  guards,  the  artistic  ties  which  bind  me  to 
it  ...  I  should  not  care  to  be  its  captain  now.  .  .  .  Have 
you  heard  of  the  friendship  which  united  my  sovereign  to  the 
great  man  who  directed  the  construction  of  this  vessel?  " 

"Vickers  Sons  &  Maxim?" 

"  No,"  said  Muller,  with  a  smile  of  disdain.  "  Wagner  in 
person.  Louis  of  Bavaria  desired  to  own  a  bark  that  would 
immortalize  the  opera  of  the  maestro.  In  summertime,  after 
the  music  festivals  of  Bayreuth,  there  were  to  be  given  concerts, 
musical  cycles  on  the  high  sea.  He  would  undertake  pleasure 
trips  with  the  whole  troupe,  from  the  prima  donna  to  the  bril- 
liant corps  of  ballerinas.  Wagner  himself  went  to  the  ship- 
yard, and  there  he  communicated  to  the  builders  his  unique 
conceptions,  so  that  the  vessel  would  possess  acoustic  condi- 
tions of  the  highest  order.  How  many  times  have  I  accompan- 
ied my  beloved  sovereign,  with  his  dear  ballerinas  whom  I  my- 
self directed,  to  the  azure  skies  of  the  Mediterranean,  to  the 
coast  of  ancient  Hellas,  to  Cyprus,  to  Sicily,  to  the  cradles  of 
art.  .  .  ." 

"  But  the  years  pass,  and  everything  ages.  My  King  died. 
The  merry  days  of  youth  were  followed  by  days  and  years  of 
monotony  and  boredom.  The  Government  of  my  country  fi- 
nally decided  to  sell  this  boat,  already  much  deteriorated  and 
now  without  any  definite  object  to  serve.  But  this  vessel  will 
forever  be  connected  in  my  recollection  with  the  great  name  of 
the  master.  I  myself  have  never  had  the  heart  to  separate 
myself  from  this  vessel,  and  thus  I  came  to  America  to  share 
its  fate,  whatever  it  may  be." 

Deeply  moved,  Muller  then  sat  down,  as  though  crushed  by 
a  great  grief,  before  the  piano,  and  played  with  extraordinary 


380  PAX 

feeling  and  skill   one  of  the  most  expressive  passages   from 
Wagner's  great  opera. 

Meanwhile  Roberto,  although  wrapped  in  the  strains  of  this 
intoxicating  music,  which  vibrated  in  the  cabin  as  within  the 
hollow  of  a  mellow  violin,  thought  he  could  hear  between  the 
folds  of  the  heavy  hangings  that  were  fastened  to  the  carpet 
on  the  floor,  and  in  the  delicious  dusk  of  the  adjoining  smaller 
cabins,  feminine  laughter,  whispering,  caressing  noises.  .  .  . 

But  urged  on  by  his  keen  wish  to  meet  and  encourage  the 
defenders  of  Cartagena,  Roberto  hastened  his  departure,  which 
was  set  for  that  very  night. 

It  was  necessary  to  find  a  port  or  a  beach  near  the  city 
whose  fate  was  in  doubt,  because  when  sailing  for  it  the  vessel 
would  be  liable  to  attack  by  the  enemy.  Casanova  and  some 
others  worthy  of  confidence  succeeded  in  putting  Roberto  in  con- 
tact both  with  Cartagena  and  with  the  chief  commanding  the 
army  that  was  to  liberate  that  town.  In  this  certainly  Captain 
Miiller  who  knew  very  little  about  America  and  still  less  about 
the  deserted  coasts  of  Colombia,  could  be  of  very  little  help. 
But  with  the  aid  of  a  good  chart  and  acting  on  information  ob- 
tained in  Colon,  Roberto  became  convinced  that  the  require- 
ments would  be  met  by  San  Pedro  del  Sinu,  a  small  place 
to  the  east  of  Cartagena,  frequented  almost  entirely  by  fishing 
boats  and  smugglers. 

Greatly  gratified  by  the  success  of  this  part  of  his  task, 
Roberto  started  on  his  voyage,  favored  by  magnificent  weather. 
But  he  became  soon  aware,  both  by  the  slow  progress  made 
and  by  the  irregular  action  of  the  engines,  that  the  vessel  was 
suffering  from  some  grave  defect.  When  he  questioned  the  en- 
gineer, he  learned  that  although  from  a  strictly  artistic  point 
of  view  the  Flying  Dutchman  was  a  model  ship,  it  was  some- 
what different  with  its  engines,  since  these  had  never  been  much 
to  brag  of  in  the  beginning,  and  were  now  sadly  suffering  from 
age  and  long  usage. 

"  But  that  is  not  a  matter  to  worry  about,"  opined  Captain 
Miiller,  "  at  least  not  for  such  a  consummate  artist  as  with 
pleasure  I  see  you  are.  The  vessel,  of  course,  has  somewhat 
been  affected  by  the  rigors  of  time,  just  as  I  myself  have.  But 
there  is  a  way  to  mend  that.  Just  as  soon  as  you  have  fulfilled 
your  mission,  we  can  go  to  Curasao  to  have  the  necessary  re- 


THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN  381 

pairs  made.  There  we  ourselves  can  renew  our  liquid  pro- 
visions, almost  exhausted  on  board, —  a  fact  which,  as  chief  of 
this  expedition,  I  ought  to  let  you  know." 

In  spite,  however,  of  its  slow  progress,  two  days  later  they 
sighted  in  the  dark  background  of  the  coast  the  group  of 
houses  which  they  were  looking  for. 

"  Just  look,"  said  the  captain,  accosting  Roberto  on  deck, 
"  at  those  three  lines :  the  wide  sweep  of  the  horizon,  the  coast, 
and  the  sea.  .  ,  .  Does  it  not  suggest  to  you  the  subject  of  a 
great  painting?  " 

"  I  should  prefer  to  know,"  said  Roberto,  "  how  we  shall  be 
able  to  disembark  our  men  within  these  masterly  lines." 

"  Well,  as  to  that,  I  should  not  undertake  to  conceive  a  defi- 
nite plan,"  replied  the  captain,  with  a  very  friendly  smile, 
"  but  here  we  can  have  a  pilot,  who  might  be  able  to  solve  the 
puzzle." 

They  dropped  anchor  at  some  distance  from  shore,  for  fear 
of  shallows  along  the  coast.  Roberto  gave  detailed  instructions 
to  Casanova  and  his  companion,  handing  them  also  a  letter  for 
Ronderos  in  which  he  let  the  latter  know  that  within  a  fort- 
night he  would  be  in  the  Bay  of  Cartagena  and  that  he  should 
attack  the  besiegers,  provided  he  could  be  advised  of  the  pres- 
ence of  the  army,  so  that  hostilities  could  be  opened  simul- 
taneously. He  also  communicated  to  Ronderos  the  news  that 
he  had  aboard  two  hundred  boxes  of  munitions,  as  well  as  an 
extensive  stock  of  military  equipments  and  uniforms.  As  to 
the  preconcerted  assault  he  would  fire  three  cannon  shots, 
which  ought  to  be  replied  to  by  another  three  shots  from 
Ronderos'  artillery. 

In  one  of  the  two  boats  on  board  which  preserved  their  old 
inscription  of  the  Flying  Dutchman,  the  commissioners  ap- 
proached the  coast  line.  But  not  being  able  to  land  in  the 
small  craft,  because  the  strong  waves  would  have  damaged 
or  smashed  it  against  the  wharf,  they  reached  the  shore  by 
swimming. 

After  several  days  of  troublesome,  navigating,  during  which 
the  defects  of  the  vessel  grew  more  serious,  Roberto  arrived  at 
Curasao.  With  how  much  pleasure  did  he  leave  the  sea  to 
which  he  was  not  habituated,  and  touch  again  solid  and  inhabi- 
tated  soil! 


382  PAX 

He  straightway  made  for  the  Hotel  of  the  Lion  of  Flanders, 
and  stepping  into  the  spacious  dining-room  he  heard  voices  and 
saw  two  men  whom  he  seemed  to  know,  one  in  front  of  the  other; 
they  were  giving  their  most  particular  attention  to  a  succulent 
meal  of  many  dishes.  The  one  man  was  thin,  of  rapid  move- 
ments and  extravagant  gestures,  in  which  could  easily  be  read 
self-sufficiency  and  pretension.  The  other  was  flabby  and 
fleshy,  with  thick  eye  glasses:  Landaburo  and  Sanchez  Mendez. 

Landaburo  proudly  displayed  the  military  uniform  in  which 
he  was  arrayed,  dolman  and  kepis,  in  which  guise  Roberto  had 
lately  seen  his  picture  on  the  wrapper  of  packages  of  cigarettes 
beneath  the  motto:  "  General  Landaburo,  Provisional  Presi- 
dent of  Colombia."  Mendez  was  in  an  elegant  summer  suit. 
Both  showed  in  their  manner  a  restful  and  pleasant  life. 

While  they  were  enjoying  their  truffles  and  mushrooms  and 
washed  them  down  with  wines  of  ancient  vintage,  they  wrote  in 
pencil  something  of  importance  which  caused  them  great  pre- 
occupation. For  that  reason  they  did  not  espy  Roberto,  who 
sat  down  not  far  from  them,  in  the  shadow  of  a  curtain,  whence 
he  could  hear  while  he  satisfied  his  appetite,  all  Landaburo 
was  reading,  as  follows: 

Project  of  a  pact  of  peace,  concluded  in  Curacao  between  the  most  ex- 
cellent Senor  Floro  Landaburo,  President  of  Colombia,  supreme  director 
of  the  war  and  commander  of  the  armies  at  sea  and  on  shore,  and  his 
Excellency  Luis  Sanchez  Mendez,  envoy  extraordinary  and  minister  pleni- 
potentiary of  Colombia  to  His  Apostolic  Majesty. 

We,  being  genuine  representatives  of  those  two  great  political  communi- 
ties who  are  now  at  armed  strife  with  each  other  regarding  control  of 
Colombia,  desirous  to  consecrate  the  principle  that  their  rights  are  equal 
and  that  the  supremacy  of  the  one  in  the  government  does  not  imply  the 
forcible  negation  of  all  political  life  to  the  other,  and  still  less  its  exter- 
mination, and  corresponding  to  the  faithful  pledge  given  by  our  historical 
mission  and  to  the  confidence  put  in  us  by  our  fellow-citizens,  and,  gen- 
erally speaking,  by  all  Latin-America,  have  concluded  to  conclude  and  do 
conclude,  ad  referendum,  the  peace  convention  contained  in  the  following 
articles : 

1.)  At  the  end  of  thirty  days  a  convention  shall  meet  in  which  will  be 
represented  all  parties,  thus :  "  Of  the  ninety  members  who  will  comprise 
that  august  body,  thirty  will  be  of  the  Revaluation  7"  arty,  thirty  of  the 
Integros,  and  thirty  of  the  Ministerial  Party." 

Landaburo  interrupted  himself,  put  his  pencil  behind  his 
ear,  drank  a  glassful  with  a  relish,  and  observed: 


THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN  383 

"  Thus,  my  dear  Doctor,  we  shall  have  two-thirds  of  the 
whole." 

"  Yes,  that  is  very  well,"  rejoined  Sanchez,  "  please  con- 
tinue! " 

2.)  In  order  to  insure  the  validity  of  the  preceding  clause,  the  Govern- 
ment will  punish  severely  those  ministerials  who  vote  in  the  electoral 
conscriptions  assigned  to  the  other  two  parties. 

As  a  material  guaranty,  the  forces  of  the  Revolution  which  are  now 
organized,  will  remain  under  arms,  and  in  possession  of  the  territory 
which  they  to-day  occupy,  as  will  those  of  the  Government. 

"  This  point  is  essential,"  grunted  Sanchez,  casting  a  shrewd 
glance  at  the  other. 

3.)  The  Convention  once  organized,  the  individual  at  this  time  holding 
it  will,  of  course,  lose  the  office  of  President  of  the  Republic,  and  instead 
the  power  will  be  exercised  by  two  Consuls,  namely,  the  Provisional 
President  and  the  late  President  of  the  Senate. 

Sanchez,  who  was  carving  a  roast,  suspended  his  labors  for 
a  minute,  and  smilingly  questioned  Landaburo  by  a  glance  full 
of  affection  which  he  shot  above  his  eyeglasses,  and  the  latter, 
to  make  his  meaning  perfectly  plain,  added  in  a  satisfied  way: 
"  You  and  I." 

4.)  The  Convention  will  declare  forfeited  the  rights  and  concessions  of 
the  Company  of  the  Panama  Canal,  and  will  send  a  Commission  of  three 
members  to  take  possession  of  the  property  of  the  said  company. 

5.)  The  Convention  will  also  declare  by  one  act  the  invalidity  of  the 
paper  currency,  the  only  method  by  which  all  Colombians  will  lose  rapidly 
and  equably  their  paper  money,  the  rich  as  well  as  the  poor,  and  thus  will 
start  afresh  on  a  new  path. 

"  These  last  two  articles  will  show  to  the  country  that  the 
interests  of  a  sect  have  not  been  able  to  postpone,  much  less  to 
forget,  those  of  the  parties  to  the  contract,  which  means  the 
interests  of  our  country." 

Sanchez  nodded  his  head. 

6.)  The  present  Peace  Convention,  by  which  the  Party  of  Revaluation 
recovers  its  rights,  is  not  an  alms  given  to  beggars,  but  an  act  of  patriot- 
ism, by  which  this  party  is  placed  on  the  same  footing  with  its  adver- 
saries, without  any  other  pretension  than  to  sit  down,  of  its  own  right, 
at  the  national  table. 


384  PAX 

Landaburo  finished  his  reading  with  a  solemn  voice,  letting 
his  glance  travel  all  around,  as  though  there  were  present  a 
numerous  audience,  and  then  he  laid  his  pencil  on  the  table 
with  emphasis.  A  vigorous  outburst  of  laughter  rang  out 
at  that  moment  from  the  corner  occupied  by  Roberto.  Then 
the  latter  rose  and,  still  laughing,  went  up  to  his  two  country- 
men, saying: 

"  Most  excellent  gentlemen,  this  project  of  yours  strikes  me 
as  a  surprisingly  complete  and  perfect  measure.  That  is  the 
most  scientific  solution  of  the  whole  war.  Accept  my  congratu- 
lations! Such  a  peace  in  which  the  two  belligerents  remain 
armed,  confronting  each  other,  is  enough  to  render  anybody 
enthusiastic.  Elections  so  pure  and  so  freely  conducted  that 
its  results  are  foreseen  in  advance,  and  in  which  the  votes  of 
the  friends  of  government  are  to  be  severely  handicapped;  an 
honor  and  a  depreciation  so  heroic  that  all  those  in  the' possession 
of  paper  currency  must  lose  them  rapidly  and  equitably,  as  you 
put  it,  in  order  by  these  means  to  enrich  the  Republic  .  .  . 
all  this  is  worthy  of  the  rude  virtues  of  antiquity.  I  am  more 
than  assured  that  the  Sefior  Minister  will  convert  into  in- 
validated paper  money  the  fat  sum  paid  him  in  gold  for  this 
diplomatic  mission,  and  that  it  will  be  the  same  with  the  let- 
ters of  exchange  and  those  exportable  fruits  which  in  Colombia 
have  filled  the  knapsacks  of  the  Provisional  President  here 
present  in  order  to  secure  for  himself  a  modest  competency. 
Both  are  going  to  lose  their  paper  money  rapidly  and  equably. 
I  admire,  above  all,  the  self-denial  with  which  you  two  choose 
to  step  down,  one  from  his  throne-like  seat  in  the  Senate,  the 
other  from  his  elevated  diplomatic  post,  merely  to  fill  the  mod- 
est place  of  consuls  after  the  Roman  pattern.  We  should  also 
be  thankful  that  while  you  two  are  settling  and  discussing  the 
fate  of  the  combatants,  you  are  meeting  not  in  the  camps, 
gaining  those  honors  that  are  to  be  won  there,  but  at  a 
great  distance  away  from  danger,  seated  before  an  opulent 
meal  in  the  Lion  of  Flanders,  awaiting  the  right  moment  to  sit 
down  at  the  national  table." 

And  he  went  out,  on  his  way  to  the  dock-yard. 

Landaburo  instantly  guessed  the  purpose  of  Roberto's  trip 
to  Curasao,  and  set  out  to  prevent  his  leaving  the  island.  In- 
deed, he  denounced  him  to  the  Dutch  authorities  of  the  island, 


THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN  385 

claiming  that  the  cruiser  Alcon  had  shown  the  British  flag  on 
the  high  seas  for  military  reasons.  The  charge  was  false,  but 
Roberto  did  not  succeed  in  disproving  it  and  leaving  Curasao 
before  the  expiration  of  the  fortnight  appointed  between  him 
and  General  Ronderos  to  attack  the  besiegers  of  Cartagena 
by  land  and  sea. 

Roberto  in  the  midst  of  anxieties,  could  see  in  his  mind's 
eye  the  old  General,  perhaps  dying  or  totally  exhausted,  after 
a  harassing  march  lasting  months,  arriving  in  the  vicinity  of 
Cartagena  and  waiting  in  vain  for  the  help  promised  him  by 
the  cruiser  Alcon. 

During  the  last  few  days  far-away  storms  had  agitated  the 
ocean,  and  their  traces  could  be  perceived  in  the  high  seas  that 
came  smashing  against  the  coasts  and  harbors  not  very  distant 
from  Curagao. 

It  seemed  almost  as  though  the  ocean  still  retained  a  mute 
kind  of  anger,  and  as  though  its  waves  were  muttering  curses 
and  maledictions,  preparatory  to  carrying  out  definite  plans  of 
vengeance. 

After  leaving  Curasao  and  being  on  the  open  sea  Roberto  did 
not  fail  to  hear  once  more  the  odd  rhythm  of  the  ship's  en- 
gines. True,  at  first  everything  went  well.  The  throbs  of 
the  engines  were  regular  and  similar  to  the  pulsations  of  a 
healthy  person.  But  in  a  short  while  they  changed  to  irregular 
motions,  the  thumping  of  the  machinery  became  strong  and  weak 
by  turns,  and  the  whole  action  sounded  more  like  the  plaints 
and  snuffling  of  a  sick  man. 

Roberto  passed  long  spells  in  the  chart  room  of  Captain 
Miiller,  who  was  always  cheerful  and  amusing,  diverting  him 
with  his  light  chatter,  notably  with  his  gay  recollections  of 
famous  musicians  and  dancers.  But  the  weather  became  threat- 
ening. The  sun  blinked  from  a  murky  sky  pale  and  uncertain, 
and  the  mist  which  permanently  enwrapped  the  horizon,  ap- 
peared to  Roberto  of  bad  augury.  It  was  not  long  before  the 
Alton  was  the  toy  of  a  violent  storm.  And  the  crew  became  con- 
vinced that  the  vessel  would  soon  be  in  the  midst  of  an  ap- 
proaching hurricane  from  the  Caribbean  Sea. 

The  evening  came,  and  the  Flying  Dutchman  creaked  and 
leaped  about  in  a  fantastic  manner,  so  that  it  looked  as  though 
she  would  soon  go  to  pieces.  Frequently  powerful  waves  would 


386  PAX 

sweep  over  the  whole  bridge,  until  to  remain  there  was  almost 
impossible.  At  other  times  the  vessel  would  be  lifted  up  to 
the  very  summit  of  a  mountain  of  water,  remain  there  for  a 
second  quite  steady,  and  would  then  be  hurled  down  into  a  very 
abyss  that  threatened  to  engulf  it.  At  such  times  there  would 
be  felt  a  tremendous  shock,  and  the  screw  would  furiously  turn 
with  lightning  speed  within  the  void,  being  unable  to  reach 
th0  surface  of  the  sea  and  aid  in  the  progress  of  the  ves- 
sel. 

Outside  there  was  impenetrable  obscurity,  the  roaring  of  the 
tempest  in  the  rigging,  and  the  constant  pounding  of  the  waves 
whose  spume,  like  delicate  white  lace  upon  the  black  waves, 
floated  upon  the  dark  surface.  Sometimes,  too,  ruddy  lights 
wandered  like  specters  across  the  tragic  horizon.  .  .  . 

Night  came.  The  obscurity  was  complete,  the  furor  of  the 
storm  increased. 

Flashes  of  lightning  crossed  each  other  in  the  heavens, 
and  cleaved  the  dense  mist  in  all  directions,  coming  often  up 
the  farthest  portion  of  the  firmament,  like  magic  lighting  up 
for  instants,  the  infinite  blackness.  The  waves  grew  in  size 
and  terrific  power,  rose  towards  the  sky,  became  veritable  moun- 
tains, then  returned  on  their  path,  and  through  the  darkened 
ocean  there  ran  frightful  bellowings,  terrifying  crashes,  hoarse 
thunderings. 

Suddenly  Roberto  smelt  the  odor  of  smoke,  coming  from  rags 
or  timber  afire.  He  went  on  deck,  then  all  about  the  ship, 
exploring  it  from  end  to  end.  Nothing.  And  he  was  return- 
ing satisfied  that  there  was  no  cause  for  disquiet,  when  he 
saw  issuing  out  of  a  skylight  in  the  stern  a  whole  whirl  of 
sparks  which  went  scattering  their  fugitive  light  over  the  wide 
expanse  of  the  black  waters. 

After  a  cry  of  alarm,  "  Fire  on  board,"  he  quickly  slipped 
down  the  hatchway,  and  struggling  with  the  smoke  which  al- 
most stifled  him,  he  got  to  the  hold  of  the  ship.  On  opening 
the  door  of  the  store  room,  where  the  war  stores  and  clothing 
outfits  were  kept,  he  was  driven  back  by  the  flames  that  tried 
with  a  terrible  roar  to  find  egress. 

"The  munitions!  " 

He  ran  back  in  search  of  the  crew  in  order  to  organize  an 
attempt  to  quench  the  fire.  In  one  of  the  passages  through 


THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN  387 

which  he  ran  half  suffocated,  the  flames  burned  his  shoulders. 
The  fire  blew  from  point  to  point. 

On  the  bridge  he  met  sailors  who  were  already  paralyzed  with 
terror,  endeavoring  to  find  means  to  escape.  Groups  of  them 
were  already  disputing  among  themselves  the  forcible  possession 
of  the  boats  suspended  from  the  sides  of  the  ship,  and  tried 
to  launch  them  overboard,  while  others  were  grasping  life  savers. 
.  .  .  All  was  confusion,  disorder,  futile  bustle. 

The  flames  were  increasing  in  size  and  fury  steadily,  spread 
over  the  surface  of  the  sea  and,  being  reflected  in  the  water, 
looked  like  patches  of  blood. 

Roberto,  his  revolver  in  hand,  and  in  a  voice  whose  energetic 
sound  amazed  himself,  succeeded  at  last  in  exacting  obedience 
from  this  crazed  multitude,  in  keeping  them  under  control, 
infusing  them  with  courage,  and  convincing  them  of  the  use- 
lessness  of  all  efforts  to  try  and  dominate  the  fire  that  were  not 
made  under  his  command. 

"  To  the  pumps!  To  the  hatches!  "  he  shouted.  "  Cut  off 
the  fire!  .  .  .  Overboard  with  the  munitions!  " 

Such  were  his  brief  orders,  his  battle  plan.  And  the  crew, 
accustomed  to  obey,  electrified  by  will  stronger  than  their  own, 
and  now  recovered  from  their  first  panic,  went  each  to  his  ap- 
pointed place  on  board,  in  order  and  silence.  And  a  short 
while  later  a  group  of  them  succeeded  in  saving  the  munition 
stores  out  of  the  hold.  Others  were  busily  at  work  at  the 
pumps  and  the  shock  of  the  spouting  masses  of  water  was 
heard,  while  hatchets  and  axes  with  which  to  cut  off  flaming 
parts  of  the  deck  or  rigging  could  be  seen  in  the  sinewy  hands 
of  the  sailors. 

But  in  spite  of  such  strenuous  efforts  the  fire  advanced  with 
amazing  swiftness.  The  strong  wind  sweeping  over  the  whole 
deck  from  the  stern,  the  flames  spread  over  the  whole  vessel, 
growing  constantly  in  power  and  at  last  wrapping  everything 
in  a  mantle  of  smoke  and  fire.  Then,  as  a  last  resort,  Roberto 
gave  orders  to  tack,  so  as  to  present  the  whole  front  to  the 
hurricane.  Then  the  flames  retired  towards  the  stern,  leaving 
the  bow  and  the  center  of  the  vessel  free  and  thus  diminishing 
the  danger.  And  the  thought  came  to  Roberto's  mind  that  this 
frail  vessel,  now  wandering  about  without  goal  in  the  immensity 
of  the  ocean,  battling  with  the  pitiless  waves,  shaken  by  the 


388  PAX 

whirlwind  and  lighted  solely  by  a  trail  of  fire,  was  certainly  a 
nautical  phantom,  such  as  the  Flying  Dutchman  of  the  legend 
was  said  to  be. 

Meanwhile  the  work  of  fighting  the  flames  went  on.  Thanks 
to  these  strenuous  endeavors  and  to  the  skilful  maneuver  of 
exposing  the  bow  of  the  ship  to  the  full  power  of  the  hurricane, 
Roberto  succeeded  at  last  in  confining  the  conflagration  to  the 
stern.  There,  however,  it  still  raged  unrestrained.  The  miz- 
zen  mast,  half  devoured  by  the  flames,  was  on  the  point  of 
crashing  down  right  into  the  engine  room,  but  in  the  very  nick 
of  time  a  plucky  sailor  succeeded  in  cutting  the  ropes  which 
held  this  mast,  thus  letting  it  roll  into  the  sea. 

Suddenly  a  flash  of  lightning,  a  shock,  a  detonation.  .  .  . 
Had  the  munition  stores  caught  fire?  .  .  .  Each  thought  his 
last  hour  had  arrived.  Terror  stalked  once  more  in  the  ranks. 
Their  efforts  in  fighting  the  conflagration  relaxed.  Disorder 
reigned.  Everybody  came  and  went  at  his  pleasure  and 
crowded  and  shouted  without  listening  to  commands. 

Roberto  for  the  second  time  restored  the  spirit  of  his  crew. 
He  proved  to  these  crazed  men  that  merely  a  heap  of  machine 
gun  munition,  left  inadvertently  on  deck,  had  exploded,  and 
made  them  understand  that  only  the  disregard  of  fear  and  death, 
self-denial,  a  common  effort,  could  save  them  all  from  destruc- 
tion, whereas  selfishness  and  unreasoning  fear,  as  well  as  work 
done  in  a  haphazard  manner,  would  mean  disaster  for  them 
all. 

Thus  again  the  panic  subsided,  and  the  joint  fight  against 
the  common  danger,  the  fire,  began  in  real  earnest.  All  worked 
with  great  energy.  It  was  evident  that  a  new  spirit  had  been 
infused  into  these  bodies  exhausted  by  so  many  hours  of  hard 
and  unremitting  labor.  Not  a  single  one  among  them  who 
did  not  bear  tokens  of  this  great  struggle.  They  all  were  half 
naked,  with  their  hair  singed,  with  faces  bathed  in  perspira- 
tion, covered  with  ashes  and  cinders,  or  showed  wounds  that 
bled  profusely  or  their  bare  flesh  covered  with  horrible  burns. 

The  bustle  on  board  kept  these  poor  fellows  constantly  on  the 
move,  obliging  them  to  watch  carefully  the  most  exposed  and 
dangerous  points  assailed  by  the  flames,  while  all  the  time  they 
were  between  two  equally  menacing  dangers:  death  by  fire  or 
death  by  drowning. 


THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN  389 

The  flames  which  as  yet  they  were  unable  to  subdue,  scorched 
their  faces  and  cut  them  off  from  all  relief,  and  the  sinister 
gleaming  and  dancing  tongues  illumined  the  exposed  flesh, 
while  they  cast  the  men's  lower  extremities  into  deep  shad- 
ows. 

Towards  midnight  the  storm  began  to  abate  its  fury,  and 
then  the  wind  took  to  shifting  about  rapidly.  The  flames 
then  broke  out  afresh  in  all  their  terror,  and  spread  anew  over 
other  parts  of  the  vessel.  Their  size,  too,  increased,  splitting 
into  several  wild  holocausts,  flared  up  and  diminished  in  an 
irregular  manner,  and  threatening  every  instant  to  make  one 
resistless  sweep  along  the  whole  ship. 

Roberto,  who  had  noticed  the  complete  absence  of  Captain 
Miiller  for  some  time,  went  to  look  for  him  at  his  post  of 
duty,  but  could  not  find  him.  He  went  downstairs  to  the  din- 
ing-room, and  there  he  found  him,  emptying,  tumbler  after 
tumbler,  the  choice  liquors  with  which,  at  his  suggestions,  the 
ship  had  been  supplied  at  Curasao.  He  received  Roberto  with 
an  affectionate  tenderness,  calling  him  either  "  Your  Majesty  " 
or  "  Maestro  Wagner."  Terror  and  the  wine  cup  jointly  had 
produced  in  him  a  profound  mental  disturbance.  That  femin- 
ine soul  of  his,  made  only  for  the  emotions  and  the  delights  of 
art,  was  not  able  to  confront  death  face  to  face. 

Becoming  aware  that  the  conflagration  had  taken  on  new  life, 
this  odd  captain  had  a  hallucination:  he  plunged  on  deck,  but 
thought  himself  at  the  theater,  where  he  imagined  himself  di- 
recting a  minuet,  a  particular  one  with  which,  in  times  past, 
he  used  to  earn  great  applause.  His  diseased  imagination 
had  overshadowed  all  fear  and  danger,  and  what  his  eyes  be- 
held seemed  to  him  one  of  those  Wagnerian  scenes  upon 
which  the  ample  means  of  Louis  II  of  Bavaria  had  been  squan- 
dered. His  distorted  fancy  grasped  this  whole  terrible  ap- 
paratus of  the  raging  conflagration  on  board  merely  as  a 
piece  of  decorative  scenery.  The  sea  was  to  him  a  stage  set- 
ting, and  those  men  scorched  and  bleeding  and  in  rags  who 
were  desperately  contending  against  the  devouring  heat  and 
flame,  were  to  him  nothing  but  actors  instead  of  strugglers  in 
a  gigantic  duel. 

On  deck  the  captain  of  this  fantastic  vessel  was  endeavoring, 
on  the  points  of  his  toes,  to  teach  a  certain  dance  step.  He 


390  PAX 

bent  his  ear  to  listen  to  the  supposed  ballet  music,  he  indi- 
cated the  measure  and  the  time  of  it  with  great  and  patient 
minuteness.  He  spoke,  in  an  affectionate  voice,  to  one  side 
and  the  other.  He  showed  again  and  again,  the  figures  of 
his  dance,  and  put  in  their  proper  places  his  imaginary  bal- 
lerinas. He  raised  his  hands  as  though  conducting  a  bride  to 
the  altar  with  delicate  grace,  and  to  wind  it  all  up,  he  broke 
out  in  fits  of  laughter  and  applause. 

Just  before  break  of  day,  the  wind  had  shifted  completely, 
which  permitted  Roberto  to  change  the  course  for  Cartagena, 
without  the  danger  of  the  fire  on  board  invading  the  vessel  in 
other  quarters.  The  fire,  in  fact,  which  by  now,  thanks  to 
energetic  action,  had  been  confined  to  one  part  of  its  hull  alone, 
at  last,  deprived  of  material  on  which  to  feed,  went  out  en- 
tirely. 

The  rising  sun,  lighting  up  those  vast  spaces  previously 
a  prey  to  the  hurricane,  now  shone  with  great  splendor  upon 
the  grateful  ocean.  Above,  the  national  flag  of  blue;  below, 
the  waves  gilt  by  the  glorious  rays  of  the  sun,  and  the  vessel 
itself,  wounded  and  consumed,  leaving  in  its  wake  small  clouds 
of  ill-smelling  smoke,  with  its  crew  utterly  spent  by  herculean 
labors,  despoiled  forever  of  its  thick  curtains  and  marble 
toilet  tables,  of  its  cozy  divans  and  soft  carpets,  of  those  hidden 
spots  where  Roberto  had  fancied  hearing  whispering,  feminine 
giggling  and  caresses.  .  .  . 

Far  away  on  the  horizon  appeared  now  the  uncertain  lines 
of  the  Colombian  mountains.  So  far  it  was,  however,  but 
a  narrow  ribbon  which  by  and  by  was  to  widen  out  until 
it  presented,  in  light  and  shade,  the  details  of  the  coast. 

As  the  vessel  proceeded  on  her  course,  Roberto  was  en- 
abled to  fix  with  absolute  certainty  the  end  of  the  journey, 
and  already  he  thought  he  could  distinguish  with  his  glass  at 
a  point  in  his  field  of  vision  which  corresponded  to  the  exact 
side  of  Cartagena,  a  dense  smoke,  indications  of  extensive 
fighting  going  on  there.  As  he  advanced  farther,  he  could 
hear,  in  confirmation  of  his  surmises,  a  long  and  steady  roar, 
like  distant  thunder.  Urged  on  by  his  anxiety,  he  made  up 
his  mind  to  overcome  every  obstacle  in  order  to  be  there  in 
time,  and  at  the  risk  of  flying  up  into  the  air  with  his  queer 
craft,  he  gave  instructions  to  speed  up  the  engines  to  their 


K. 


THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN  391 

maximum  capacity.  And  then  the  cruiser  Alcon  exerted  it- 
self like  a  man  in  a  fever,  puffing  and  blowing  and  cleaving 
the  water  like  a  superannuated  racing  yacht.  The  engine 
thumps  with  a  violence  probably  never  before  shown,  and  the 
screw  whirls  with  lightning  speed.  Roberto,  it  is  true,  can  hear, 
through  all  the  clatter  and  noise,  something  like  groans  of 
fatigue  emitted  by  this  craft  debilitated  by  age,  death  throes 
that  foretell  speedy  dissolution  —  this  craft  has  of  late  been 
nearly  annihilated  by  the  hurricane  and  half  destroyed  by  in- 
ternal combustion. 

But  still  he  steadily  advanced,  hastening  through  the  waves, 
until,  the  coast  itself  now  reached,  he  was  able  to  penetrate 
without  trouble,  into  the  bay  by  way  of  its  narrow  chan- 
nel. 

He  approached  with  his  vessel  as  closely  as  he  could  those 
places  where  the  combat  was  raging  with  greatest  fury,  and 
by  sending  at  close  range  into  the  ranks  of  the  besieging  forces 
a  number  of  well-aimed  shots,  using  for  the  purpose  his  ma- 
chine guns,  he  inflicted  severe  punishment  on  the  enemy.  The 
latter  did  not  count .  on  this  attack  from  the  rear,  while  they 
had  already  been  outclassed  by  the  forces  of  General  Ron- 
deros.  Dismay  seized  them.  General  Ronderos,  in  fact,  had 
arrived  but  three  days  before  in  the  vicinity  of  Cartagena,  and 
had  pledged  himself  to  fight  desperately  in  order  to  defeat 
the  enemy  and  raise  the  siege  of  this  important  harbor  city.  A 
part  of  his  fores,  indeed,  had  already  broken  the  opposing 
ranks  and  reached  the  walled  and  fortified  center  of  the  city, 
coming  most  opportunely  to  the  aid  of  the  exhausted  and  out- 
numbered garrison  of  Cartagena.  The  rest  of  the  besieged 
forces  had  been  maneuvering  in  the  open  field  against  superior 
forces  to  defeat  the  assaults  upon  the  place. 

Since  the  arrival  of  Ronderos  the  fighting  on  both  sides  had 
been  of  a  most  desperate  nature,  and  at  the  moment  when 
Roberto  came  to  his  friend's  aid,  the  battle  was  still  undecided. 
The  forces  of  Polanco,  who  was  directing  the  siege,  and  who 
was  both  brave  and  able,  had  exerted  themselves  to  their  ut- 
most. 

Amongst  the  powerful  instruments  of  the  attack  upon  Car- 
tagena Polanco  had  also  used  those  vessels  seized  on  the  Mag- 
dalena  River  and  the  dredging  boats  of  the  Canalization  Com- 


i 


392  PAX 

V  . 

pany,  which,  armed  and  fitted  out  as  war  vessels,  had  been  util- 
lized  in  a  bombardment  of  the  forts  of  Cartagena. 

Some  of  these  small  vessels  were  pursued  down  the  bay  by  the 
Alcon,  and  sunk  by  artillery  fire,  while  others,  thanks  to  their 
low  draft,  were  able  to  escape  from  the  combat.  With  pain 
Roberto  recognized  among  these  craft  the  Bellegarde  and  the 
Ines,  as  well  as  the  dredges,  and  ordered  them  at  once  to  be 
fired  upon,  destroying  thus  his  own  property. 

The  opportune  arrival  of  the  cruiser  Alcon  and  Roberto's 
energetic  and  skilful  attacks  decided  the  victory  in  favor  of 
General  Ronderos. 

At  the  reports  of  the  first  shots  Captain  Miiller  awakened 
from  his  dreams,  and  in  the  midst  of  his  mental  derange- 
ment he  understood,  with  a  half-light  of  tottering  reason,  that 
a  battle  was  going  on  and  that  it  was  his  duty,  both  as  a  mili- 
tary man  and  a  captain  of  this  vessel,  to  take  his  place  in  this 
fight.  His  first  idea,  therefore,  was  to  put  on  his  uniform. 
He  chose  to  appear  in  proper  guise,  his  most  elegant  outfit. 
Thus  he  came  on  deck,  in  pumps,  silk  stockings,  short  breeches, 
and  a  sword,  while  his  bosom  was  adorned  with  several  deco- 
rations; the  memorial  medal  of  Wagner,  the  order  of  musical 
merit  of  Bavaria,  and  the  royal  order  of  St.  Cecilia. 

Attired  in  all  this  splendor  he  presented  himself  with  great 
solemnity  and  a  commanding  mien. 

The  first  thing  that  met  his  artist's  eye,  was  the  vivid  blue 
of  the  bay,  slightly  stirred  by  the  breeze,  the  irregular  shape  of 
the  city,  with  its  girdle  of  walls,  and  upon  the  neighboring 
hills,  the  forts.  Then  outside,  giving  animation  to  this  pic- 
ture, the  besieging  army,  the  glitter  of  its  arms,  the  bright 
colors  of  its  uniforms,  and  the  smoke  clouds  on  the  battle 
field  which,  driven  by  the  wind,  were  dispersed  into  a  semi- 
transparent  veil,  here  and  there  torn  to  shreds. 

The  clatter  of  the  infantry,  the  trumpet  blasts,  the  shouting 
and  shrieking  of  the  combatants,  the  smash  of  the  waves  against 
the  docks  and  beach,  and  the  echoes  of  the  guns,  this  entire 
medley  of  noises  that  were  acute,  grave  and  solemn,  seemed  to 
Miiller,  educated  in  the  art  of  Wagner,  a  sublime  symphony,  a 
grandiose  disharmony,  a  plenitude  of  sounds  which,  in  the 
exaltation  of  his  madness,  made  his  entire  being  tremble,  in- 


THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN  393 

toxicated  him,  shook  him  to  the  point  of  a  veritable  paroxysm  of 
enthusiasm. 

The  stage  setting,  the  drama  itself,  and  all  this  singular 
music  .  .  .  this  meant  to  him  a  dream  realized,  meant  the 
new  art,  the  music  capable  of  furnishing  the  exact  expression 
of  the  indefinite.  And  he  remained  a  long  while  there  carried 
beyond  himself,  as  if  on  wings,  without  taking  account  of  the 
danger,  when  he  suddenly  heard  near  him  a  cry  of  intense  pain. 
One  of  his  own  crew,  a  handsome  German  youth,  lay  in  the 
convulsions  of  death  at  his  feet. 

The  blood  which  escaped  in  streams  from  his  death  wound, 
was  forming  on  deck  a  pool  of  vivid  red,  and  then  ran  off 
in  thin  rills,  finally  filtering,  drop  by  drop,  into  the  sea. 
The  bright  scarlet  of  the  blood  made  a  striking  contrast  with 
the  excessive  pallor  of  the  dying  man,  across  whose  face  there 
passed  rapidly  snowy  waves  of  increasing  feebleness,  and  from 
whose  blue  eyes  the  light  and  expression  now  fled. 

Death  put  into  those  eyes  a  fixed  look  of  dread,  reproach,  in- 
finite bitterness. 

Miiller  observed  all  this  with  affright.  His  soul  wounded, 
he  returned  to  reality,  and  in  spite  of  his  mental  aberration,  he 
comprehended  all  that  was  passing. 

Upon  the  beach  there  lay  many  dead  and  motionless,  or  else 
they  moved  about  in  the  same  appalling  manner  as  the  young 
German  had  done  a  moment  before  in  his  agony.  A  num- 
ber of  dead  bodies  were  floating  on  the  water,  at  the  mercy 
of  the  waves. 

The  shells  fired  by  the  Alcon  were  tearing  great  holes  in  the 
ranks  of  the  assaulting  army,  and  many  of  these,  taken  by  sur- 
prise at  the  great  losses  sustained  by  their  own  side,  fled  with 
great  speed,  went  into  hiding,  looked  for  shelter,  and  threw 
their  arms  away. 

And  yet  those  men  were  for  Miiller  beings  rendered  power- 
less, against  whom  he  harbored  no  sentiment  of  hostility,  but 
on  the  contrary  feelings  of  profound  pity. 

On  board  also  the  effects  of  the  struggle  were  increasing. 
Marines  and  gunners  were  filling  the  vessel  with  sharp  cries,  as 
some  of  them  were  hit,  and  their  blood,  running  along  the  deck 
in  thick  patches,  was  feeding  the  waves. 


394  PAX 

In  the  delicate  soul  of  the  old  artist  compassion  conquered 
fear.  He  wanted  to  bend  down  over  the  dying,  render  them 
help,  ease  their  pains,  receive  their  last  wishes.  Stumbling  and 
falling  over  the  blood  which  deluged  the  deck,  he  succeeded 
in  coming  near  some  of  these  unfortunates,  took  them  by  the 
hand,  but  found  these  already  cold,  wanted  to  bathe  their  fore- 
heads, but  discovered  them  clammy  with  the  perspiration  of 
death. 

Unable  to  alleviate  these  agonies,  he  rose,  gazed  at  himself, 
and  saw  that  his  own  hands,  his  clothing,  his  entire  person  had 
become  soaked  with  blood,  and  then,  remembering  his  author- 
ity as  captain  of  this  ship,  an  idea  of  remorse,  of  grave  re- 
sponsibility, shot  through  his  head,  like  a  red-hot  iron.  "  Per- 
haps he  himself  was  guilty  as  well  ?  " 

His  madness  broke  out,  and  he  began  to  shout  in  a  power- 
ful voice,  as  if  to  dominate  his  own  awe, —  yelling  that  they 
must  suspend  this  battle,  that  the  guns  must  be  silenced,  that  this 
cruel  mission  was  not  the  one  the  Flying  Dutchman  was  built 
for.  But  nobody  listened  to  him.  The  vessel  seemed  to  share 
the  enthusiasm  of  its  crew.  And  like  them,  intoxicated  by  the 
fight,  by  the  fumes  of  the  blood  spilt  and  by  the  smoke  of 
the  powder,  the  vessel,  in  a  final  impetus  accelerated  her  artil- 
lery discharges,  vomited  death,  and  like  a  monster  mutilated  dur- 
ing combat,  which  in  its  agony  still  deals  deadly  blows,  rushed 
about  the  sea  seeking  the  enemy  and  destroying  him. 

Miiller  thought  of  the  horrible  sin  of  this  vessel  made  alone 
for  art, —  that  is  to  say,  for  that  which  is  generous  and  kind, 
and  that  now  it  had  failed  in  its  mission  and  committed  an 
eternal  crime:  the  crime  of  war.  .  .  . 

-Tormented  by  remorse,  feeling  weighed  down  by  the  hea  _ 
burden  of  sin,  he  pronounced  upon  himself  in  his  demented 
conscience  a  sentence  from  which  there  was  to  be  no  appeal: 
death  for  the  vessel,  and  death  for  himself,  and  since  both  had 
been  stained  with  the  same  guilt,  both  should  share  the  iden- 
tical expiation. 

He  ran  down  into  the  engine  room. 

A  moment  later,  the  vessel  shook  and  vibrated  like  a  living 
being,  and  then  it  came  to  a  dead  stop.  The  boilers  blew 
up.  The  heart  of  the  vessel  and  the  heart  of  Miiller  had  both 
ceased  to  beat  at  the  same  instant. 


PUERTO  BORJA  395 

The  sentence  had  been  carried  out. 

CHAPTER  XXXV 

PUERTO  BORJA 

"ROBERTO!  " 

"General!" 

They  silently  embraced  each  other. 

Roberto  had  escaped  unharmed  from  the  catastrophe  of 
the  Flying  Dutchman,  because  at  the  moment  when  Captain 
Muller,  the  firemen  and  machinists  had  perished,  scalded  or 
burned  by  the  explosion  of  the  engines,  he  had  happened  to  be 
on  deck.  He  disembarked  as  soon  as  the  enemy  left  the  beach 
free.  He  now  set  eyes  on  the  General  with  a  feeling  of  pro- 
found sadness,  and  felt  in  embracing  him  that  the  old  warrior 
had  become  a  veritable  bag  of  bones.  The  gray  hair  which  he 
formerly  wore  close  clipped,  had  turned  completely  white,  and 
now  floated  about  his  neck.  His  face  was  ashen,  the  eyes  sunk, 
and  his  whole  appearance  now  expressed  weariness  and  de- 
pression. 

Ronderos  laid  his  hands  on  the  shoulders  of  Roberto,  and 
then  contemplated  him  with  intense  affection.  How  well  this 
sunburnt  skin  became  his  young  friend,  how  manly  and  how 
full  of  laughing  humor  he  looked,  for  all  of  which  the  open 
sunlight,  the  hardships  of  a  campaign,  and  its  dangers  as 
well  were  responsible. 

"And  how  about  Casanova,  and  Chispas?"  asked  Roberto. 

"  They  have  not  arrived  here.  I  presume  they  are  either 
prisoners  or  dead." 

Together  the  two  scaled  the  walls  of  the  city.  The  Gen- 
eral gazed  attentively  over  the  whole  field  of  battle.  The  bod- 
ies of  the  dead  which  lay  down  below  at  their  feet  emitted  an 
insupportable,  fetid  stench.  Many  other  corpses  were  float- 
ing on  the  surface  of  the  water  in  the  bay,  rigid,  with  eyes 
wide  open,  as  though  scanning  the  sky. 

For  the  greater  part  these  dead  were  negroes,  with  their  bellies 
inflated  and  their  mouths  covered  with  bloody  foam. 


396  PAX 

The  general,  wiping  off  the  perspiration  which  was  drench- 
ing his  face  said  quietly: 

"  Now  Polanco  will  probably  go  to  Barranquilla  and  Ca- 
lamar,  in  order  to  concentrate  his  forces.  ...  I  know  that  he 
has  a  huge  store  of  munition  and  war  material  on  board  the 
Bellegarde  and  Ines.  .  .  .  No  matter,  from  now  on  begins  their 
downfall.  I  have  just  learned  that  Panama,  too,  has  been  re- 
covered. 

He  spoke  with  visible  fatigue,  and  it  sounded  as  though 
the  words  died  on  his  lips. 

"  General,"  said  Roberto,  "  you  ought  to  devote  yourself  for 
the  present  to  the  reestablishment  of  your  health.  Your  frame, 
at  last  worn  out  by  the  ceaseless  toil  entailed,  absolutely  re- 
quires a  rest.  .  .  . 

"  True,  ...  as  soon  as  I  have  cleared  the  river.  .  .  .  And 
you  yourself?  What  do  you  mean  to  do  now?  " 

"If  you  will  give  me  permission  to  do  so,  I  want  to  fulfil 
a  duty  of  friendship,  namely,  rescue  Bellegarde.  I  want  to 
start  this  very  night.  I  mean  to  return  to  Tolima  by  way 
of  the  Cauca." 

The  general  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  looking  at  him 
affectionately,  he  replied: 

"  Are  you  going  to  leave  me?  " 

"  Yes,  General,  with  great  regret.  But  it  is  indispensable. 
I  fear  much  for  the  life  of  that  friend  to  whom  I  and  the 
country  owe  so  much.  .  .  .  Another  request,  General:  I  want 
to  bury  Miiller  .  .  .  give  him  a  grand  burial.  ...  In  place  of 
gun  salutes  he  must  have  Wagnerian  music  .  .  .  and  please 
tell  the  orchestra  that  if  they  do  not  play  well,  he  will  without 
doubt  rise  from  his  coffin." 

The  revolutionists  had  retired  from  Cartagena  by  three 
roads:  the  railway,  the  dike  and  the  Bocas  de  Ceniza,  and 
then,  by  order  of  Polanco,  had  gathered  all  their  forces  at  Cala- 
mar. 

But  Polanco's  retirement  had  been  slow  and  difficult  work. 
He  had  to  see  to  the  safety  of  the  vessels  and  to  the  thorough 
destruction  of  all  the  property  owned  by  the  Canalization 
company.  It  was  necessary  to  destroy  all  of  their  finished 
and  half-finished  work  so  as  to  remove  for  good  and  all  this 
powerful  rival  of  the  Sabanilla  railroad,  in  the  purchase  and 


PUERTO  BORJA  397 

ownership  of  which  Polanco  had  a  share.  Meanwhile  Landa- 
buro,  having  returned  from  Curagao,  had  resumed  the  chief 
command  of  the  Revolutionists  in  his  capacity  of  provisional 
president.  The  church  of  Calamar  had  to  serve  as  barracks 
for  their  general  staff.  In  the  sacristy,  converted  into  a  stable, 
the  horses  were  taken  care  of,  and  on  top  of  the  altars  the 
principal  commanders  had  their  couches  for  the  night  placed. 
The  orderlies  with  their  women  occupied  the  rest  of  the  build- 
ing, where  some  improvised  fireplaces  served  for  the  preparation 
of  meals,  with  good  dry  wood  obtained  from  the  furniture,  the 
doors  and  saints'  images. 

Landaburo  had  his  own  bed  put  up  upon  the  main  altar, 
and  from  there  he  dictated  a  proclamation  to  Vidaurre,  his 
adjutant  and  business  partner. 

His  proclamation  read : 

"  Citizens  of  Calamar :  Greetings  to  you !  From  the  day  I  was  born 
I  have  longed  with  my  soul  to  become  acquainted  with  your  city,  the 
same  city  that  has  since  become  the  cradle  of  the  Revolution.  Duty  com- 
pelled me  to  remain  in  the  eastern  part  of  the  country,  while  desire  and 
sympathy  drew  me  towards  the  west,  and  I  was  unable  to  solve  the  prob- 
lem how  to  be  at  the  same  time  in  two  different  points.  A  predicament 
which  I  have  now  reason  to  bless.  For  here  you  have  me. 

"  Blessed  predicament,  I  say,  although  old  Ronderos  no  doubt  by  this 
time  has  published  bulletins  filled  with  stupendous  falsehoods  and  as- 
signed in  it  a  grand  and  thundering  part  to  himself,  in  the  way  of  Tar- 
tarizing  the  campaign,  and  in  which  he  has  likewise  declared  that  his 
Pretorian  guards  and  his  own  clever  plans  have  driven  us  out  of  Carta- 
gena. He  most  likely  is  at  this  moment  celebrating  our  defeat  with 
deep  draughts  of  liquor,  because  the  powder  which  they  do  not  know 
how  to  burn  in  serious  fighting  they  waste  in  vain  glorifications  and 
tricks. 

"  Our  brave  soldiers  quietly  left  the  place  when  it  seemed  good  to  them, 
and  the  Pretorians  remained  behind  within  its  walls,  of  which  they 
wanted  to  make  their  Torres  Vedras.  There  has  been  nothing  more  than 
a  change  of  scenery. 

"  It  is  certain  that  the  Janissaries  will  this  time  fight  with  tenacity, 
driven  on  by  Catholic  fanaticism  and  in  like  degree  by  alcohol.  But  he 
who  claims  that  we  have  come  here  in  consequence  of  defeat  is  badly  mis- 
taken. 

"  The  loads  of  lassos  which  the  Tiger  of  the  Capitol  (who  has  put  a 
price  upon  my  head)  has  accumulated  for  the  purpose  of  rendering  us 
powerless  of  motion,  will  be  links  in  the  chain  of  triumph  with  which  will 
end  this  night  of  slavery. 

"  Since  friends  in  misfortune  are  given  to  misstatements,  there  has  not 
lacked  at  least  one  person  in  our  ranks,  General  Polanco,  who  has  spoken 


398 


PAX 


ill  of  me.  This  general  is  a  leader  whom  I  esteem  and  respect  and  with 
whom  I  have  had  but  a  few  childish  quarrels,  and  these  must  be  covered 
with  the  cold  lava  of  the  years. 

"  Let  Polanco  believe  me  unfit,  let  him  deem  me  only  good  enough  for 
second  place,  all  right ;  but  to  charge  me  with  dishonesty ! !  Not  on  your 
life!  Polanco  is  a  proud  fellow  who  does  not  even  know  the  ABC  of 
war,  and  in  whose  brain  a  plan  of  campaign  has  never  even  been  out- 
lined with  precision. 

"  Before  the  walls  of  Cartagena  the  army  was  grand,  the  army  was 
admirable,  the  army  was  everything,  the  leader  less  than  nothing.  Gen- 
eral Polanco  knows  only  how  to  plan  campaigns  with  pin  pricks  upon 
maps.  He  ought  to  have  taken  the  city  at  any  peril,  sneaking  in,  if 
necessary,  through  a  crevice,  because,  as  Pelopidas  says :  '  When  a  lion's 
skin  is  not  available,  the  skin  of  a  she-mouse  must  do.' 

"  Citizens  of  Calamar :  The  Revolution  represents  the  only  legitimacy 
there  is,  the  only  real  right  possible  and  admissible  in  this  free  land  of 
ours.  Do  not  forget  that! 

"  With  an  army  that  is  the  most  warlike  and  formidable  ever  seen  in 
this  Republic,  with  twenty  vessels  armed  for  warfare  and  war  supplies  in 
unparalleled  masses,  I  am  about  to  oust  the  rotten  and  tottering  govern- 
ment at  Bogota,  in  spite  of  all  the  Pretorian  battalions  on  the  Atlantic 
coast,  and  will  not  leave  one  single  stone  standing  of  the  fastness  of 
Catholic  fanaticism,  the  ally  of  our  adversaries,  which  has  enticed  them 
into  numberless  shameful  crimes,  and  which  has  employed  them  as  its 
tool  of  personal  ambitions.  I  advance  upon  Bogota  with  the  sword  of  the 
Destroying  Angel,  to  uproot  despotism,  which  like  a  volcano  spreads  its 
mud  over  the  adjoining  territory.  Bogota  is  to-day  the  crater  of  a  fanati- 
cism with  desires  of  an  expansion  based  on  political  and  religious  grounds, 
as  Madrid  was  in  the  days  of  Philip  II,  and  it  was  only  by  means  of  an 
international  policy  that  that  disturbing  and  infecting  center  was  finally 
rendered  impotent.  For  that  redeeming  work  I  declare  as  a  good  patriot 
that  I  shall  make  common  cause  with  those  foreign  governments  likewise 
threatened,  and  that  in  such  honorable  company  I  shall  put  foot  in  that 
accursed  city.  If  we  have  conquered  them  in  a  hundred  battles  with  but 
ten  cartridges  per  soldier,  how  much  better  shall  we  be  able  to  do  with 
the  ample  munition  supplies  we  now  carry  with  us? 

"  We  lack  food  and  rations,  because  patriotism  does  not  provide  gen- 
erously for  its  maltreated  servants,  but  for  us  it  is  to-day  sufficient,  in 
order  to  be  amply  paid,  to  be  greeted  with  a  smile  between  pictures  of 
happiness,  bestowed  by  the  beautiful  ladies  of  Calamar,  and  to-morrow, 
instead  of  food  and  rations,  to  be  greeted  by  another  smile  from  the  lips 
of  the  no  less  beautiful  ladies  of  Bogota! 

"  Cursed  be  he  who  still  speaks  of  reconciliation,  of  peace,  of  dis- 
armament and  compromise ! 

"  Soldiers,  at  them ! 

"  Long  live  the  Revolution !  " 

Landaburo  dictated  his  proclamation  abed,  carelessly,  with- 
out much  forethought.  In  him,  the  actor,  the  man  of  the- 


PUERTO  BORJA  399 

atricalism,  there  was  never  anything  asleep.  From  time  to 
time  he  interrupted  himself,  dictated  new  orders,  asked  for 
data  regarding  the  forces  that  were  still  on  the  way  to  Calamar, 
or  made  dispositions  as  to  the  march  on  the  following  day. 
On  certain  occasions  he  let  fly  malicious  phrases  against  other 
leaders.  With  his  inferior  officers  he  discussed  intimate  details 
about  the  conduct  of  Polanco,  or  cracked  aggressive  jests  at  his 
expense.  To  show  his  great  erudition  as  a  navigator  or  engi- 
neer, he  gave  most  minute  orders  regarding  the  handling  of  the 
engines  of  the  vessels  under  his  control,  or  else  instructions 
to  the  captains  present  about  their  future  maneuvers. 

"  Read  this,  Colonel,"  he  now  said,  "  read  all  you  have 
written.  I  do  not  remember  what  I  have  dictated." 

When  the  reading  was  finished,  Landaburo  sprang  up  with 
a  bound,  and  exclaimed: 

"  Simply  admirable.  Send  this  at  once  to  the  printer  with- 
out altering  a  single  comma.  .  .  .  And  now  for  the  formal  dec- 
laration of  loyalty  which  all  the  leaders  are  to  sign  me  this  very 
night,  including,  of  course,  the  officers  of  the  army.  I  am  going 
to  dictate  that.  Write  down,  Colonel: 

"  We  present  to  you  our  enthusiastic  salute  as  provisional  president  of 
Colombia,  and  we  acknowledge  that  you  have  dedicated  your  life  to  the 
disinterested  service  of  Revaluation.  In  you  we  have  the  varied  elements 
with  which  we  are  going  to  crush  constitutional  despotism. 

"  We  know  that  your  protests  of  Curasao  in  favor  of  peace  were  ficti- 
tious, mere  traps  with  which  to  deceive  the  tyrants. 

"  With  you  at  the  head  we  shall  triumph,  or  else  mingle  our  blood  with 
yours.  You  alone  unite  the  qualities  of  the  true  general  and  tactician 
with  those  of  the  thinker,  philosopher  and  polemist.  The  steel  of  your 
pen  is  as  finely  and  justly  tempered  as  that  of  your  sword.  Talent, 
energy,  valor  and  both  private  and  public  virtues  are  in  you  legendary, 
and  you  possess  them  in  eminent  degree.  For  this  reason  you  are  as 
invincible  in  war  as  you  were  in  peace.  We  are  ten  thousand  men,  but 
with  you  at  the  head  we  shall  be  one  hundred  and  ten  thousand  soldiers. 

"  Let  this  spontaneous  manifestation  which  all  the  leaders  and  officers 
of  the  army  of  the  Revaluation  and  liberty  offer  to  you  be  a  slight  offset 
against  the  calumnies  of  which  you  have  been  made  the  victim  by  some 
persons  envious  of  your  glory,  persons  who  have  spoken  of  you  as  a 
speculator,  deserter,  and  apostate. 

"  Long  live  the  provisional  president,  our  invincible  chief !  " 

Villa  fane  hastened  from  the  room  to  obtain  all  the  signa- 
tures and  left  Landaburo  walking  to  and  fro  in  the  presbytery 


400  PAX 

of  the  church  building.  Landaburo  recollected  and  tried  to 
imitate  the  attitude  of  Napoleon,  the  great  Napoleon,  on  the 
eve  of  great  battles.  His  hands  were  clasped  behind,  his 
gaze  was  directed  into  the  infinite,  as  though  contemplating 
visions  of  glory,  classic  battles  which  for  simple  mortals  were 
invisible.  Now  and  then  he  would  let  that  noble  head  of  his 
drop  on  his  breast. 

After  a  long  while  Villafafie  returned,  with  an  aggrieved 
look. 

"  Do  you  bring  me  those  signatures?  " 

"No,  General." 

"  What  do  they  want?     What  do  they  say?  " 

"  They  are  of  opinion  that  although  the  praise  heaped  on 
yourself  may  not  be  excessive,  there  is  a  measure  of  indeli- 
cacy about  the  whole  matter.  But,  they  assert,  this  document 
ought  to  be  worded  so  as  not  to  wound  the  susceptibility  of  the 
other  chiefs  and  leaders,  in  order  not  to  endanger  the  harmony 
that  ought  to  reign  in  an  army." 

"  Well,  I  do  not  accept  any  other  formula,"  shouted  Landa- 
buro, beside  himself  with  fury.  "  I  am  not  a  prodigal  son. 
.  .  .  Give  that  declaration  to  me.  ...  I  do  not  want  them  to 
sign  anything.  I  do  not!  " 

And  taking  the  writing,  driveling  with  anger,  stamping  the 
floor  like  a  small  child,  he  tore  the  paper  to  bits,  threw  it  on 
the  ground,  tramped  on  it,  and  shrieked: 

"  The  whole  Revaluation  Party  is  nothing  but  a  parcel  of 
envious  fools." 

A  moment  later  he  remembered  that  by  his  conduct  he  was 
compromising  the  dignity  of  a  high  post,  and  also  the  sympathies 
of  those  who  might  be  listening,  and  he  therefore  changed  his 
tone,  approached  Villafafie,  and  continued: 

"  See  here,  my  friend,  I  am  not  merely  a  party  leader. 
That  is  a  mold  too  narrow  for  me.  That  irks  me,  that  bothers 
me  as  if  I  were  trying  to  wear  the  same  small  suit  I  wore  when 
a  child.  I  am  an  eagle  enclosed  in  the  egg  of  a  canary.  I  can 
only  be  the  chief  of  the  nation,  its  head.  I  am  a  national 
figure,  and  those  men,  those  imbeciles,  do  not  understand  me." 

On  the  following  day  ten  vessels  armed  for  war  left  Calamar, 
and  went  off  towards  the  interior  of  the  Republic,  and  by 
order  of  Landaburo  the  four  thousand  men  who  had  concen- 


PUERTO  BORJA  401 

trated  in  that  harbor  went  along.  As  they  advanced  up  the 
river,  the  latter  began  to  show  the  luxuriant  wealth  of  its  shores : 
splendid  panoramas,  pastures  until  recently  rilled  with  grazing 
cattle,  vast  beaches  on  which  whole  tribes  of  alligators  were 
sunning  themselves;  walls  of  verdure  that  bordered  the  waters; 
scores  of  settlements  abandoned  by  their  inhabitants;  moun- 
tains which  stood  clear  against  a  brilliant  sky;  avenues  of  gi- 
gantic cedars  standing  in  regular  groups  as  in  a  park;  dusky 
landscapes  in  which  palm  groves  detached  themselves  with  their 
trembling  fan-like  foliage;  roofs  and  cupolas  of  dense  green- 
ery, garlands  of  vines  completely  covered  with  brilliant  blos- 
soms of  butterfly  shape,  festoons,  and  cavities  closed  by  purple 
curtains.  .  .  .  Along  the  whole  extent  of  the  river  the  methodical 
and  thorough  destruction  of  the  work  done  by  the  Canalization 
company,  as  well  as  the  machinery  and  appliances  used  by 
them,  could  be  observed:  dredges  gone,  dikes  annihilated, 
very  strong  fences  torn  down,  plantations,  buildings,  powerful 
steam  works  —  all  wiped  out,  together  with  the  last  traces  even 
of  the  canal  toilers;  millions  in  value  utterly  destroyed,  titanic 
efforts  come  to  nought. 

One  morning  General  Nichols,  commanding  the  vessel  acting 
as  advance  guard,  reported  to  Landaburo  that  he  had  found 
an  enemy  encampment.  Landaburo,  who  went  in  a  fine  boat 
named  after  him,  hastened  up  in  order  to  be  present  at  the  recon- 
naissance. He  perceived  upon  the  right  shore  of  the  river, 
at  Puerto  Borja,  the  camp,  and  amid  the  fortifications  the 
company  builiding,  with  tents  and  bonfires  all  about  it,  and 
behind  the  broad  avenue  leading  up  from  the  landing  stage, 
there  were  visible  a  hill,  trenches  and  redoubts  for  defensive 
purposes. 

Immediately  Landaburo  issued  orders  for  the  commanding 
officers  to  assemble,  and  when  they  had  met,  he  distributed 
amongst  them  a  paper  on  the  cover  of  which  was  to  be  read: 
"  Plan  of  attack  at  Puerto  Borja." 

"  Foreseeing  this  fight  here  —  for  I  do  foresee  everything  .  .  . 
I  had  these  instructions  drawn  up,  gentlemen,"  he  then  ad- 
dressed them  all. 

Then  he  made  one  of  the  aides  of  his  immense  general  staff 
read  the  document  in  a  loud  voice,  as  follows: 


402  PAX 

"  1.)  The  divisions  Chances  and  General  Mosquera  will  disembark 
below  the  great  enemy  encampment,  will  then  seize  the  building  of  the 
Aserradero  and  remain  there  one  hour,  thirty-five  minutes. 

"2.)  The  divisions  Landaburo,  Tuso  Gutierrez  and  First  of  January 
will  disembark  on  the  left  shore  of  the  river,  and  will  erect  trenches  of 
sand  in  sacks  weighing  not  more  than  two  arrobas.  The  companies  will 
take  positions  keeping  a  distance  of  one  meter  twenty-five  centimeters 
between  each. 

"  3.)  As  a  signal  of  reconnaissance  there  will  be  used  one  long  trumpet 
blast  and  one  note  lower  for  attention,  and  as  answer,  another  long  blast 
and  two  high  notes.  The  password  for  the  same  purpose  will  be  the 
sublime  one  of  Cambronne  at  Waterloo,  and  will  be  answered  by  '  no 
surrender.'  " 

Just  then  a  whistle  was  heard  at  some  distance.  It  was  a 
steamer  coming  under  full  steam.  One  could  hear  the  thump- 
ing of  the  wheel  as  it  beat  the  water  rapidly.  Soon  this  vessel 
had  advanced  in  line  with  the  one  in  which  Landaburo  was 
giving  his  instructions.  General  Polanco  sprang  on  deck  and 
flashed  one  of  his  sharp  glances  upon  those  around  the  chief 
commander. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  he  then  asked. 

And  Landaburo  answered: 

"  We  are  going  to  attack  the  enemy  here  entrenched  in 
Puerto  Borja.  I  have  given  out  a  plan  of  attack  in  writing, 
one  which  goes  into  the  most  minute  details,  so  that  in  case  we 
should  lose  the  battle  it  would  not  be  through  lack  of  foresight 
on  my  part." 

"Attack?  But  .  .  .  ?  Did  you  not  state  in  your  proclama- 
tion at  Calamar  that  we  were  going  to  Bogota?  That  was 
what  was  agreed  upon, —  the  thing  fixed.  The  friends  there 
are  now  waiting  for  us  in  order  to  receive  the  immense  muni- 
tion supplies  you  promised.  A  misfortune  here  would  mean 
our  ruin.  We  ought  not  to  risk  the  last  resources  of  the  Revolu- 
tion. Disembarkment  in  Honda  would  be  of  infallible  effect. 
...  It  is  for  you,  General,  to  fulfil  your  promise.  Let  us  go 
to  the  heart  of  matters,  to  the  capital,  which  is  without  mili- 
tary protection,  and  let  us  leave  this  and  the  Coast  to  the 
generals  of  the  Government." 

"  I  take  the  liberty,  General,  to  present  this  plan  to  you, 
which  I  have  just  submitted  to  the  divisionaries  and  battalion 
chiefs." 

Without  taking  it,  Polanco  responded: 


PUERTO  BORJA  403 

"  Do  you  also  win  battles  upon  maps  and  charts  and  with 
stickpins?  " 

Landaburo  took  pains  to  defend  his  plan.  He  was  wounded 
in  his  pride  as  the  "  foremost  South  American  tactician,"  and 
thus,  with  energetic  gesticulations,  he  entered  into  a  technical 
exposition  in  which  recurred  again  and  again  his  favorite  ex- 
pressions : 

"  Stimulate  an  attack,"  "  the  extreme  right,"  "  let  the  van- 
guard file  past,"  "  formal  attack,"  "  overwhelm  the  flank," 
"  hurl  back  detachments,"  "  fall  upon  them,"  ..."  and  for- 
ward! " 

The  discussion  waxed  bitter.  Some  of  the  commanding  offi- 
cers sided  with  Landaburo,  others  with  Polanco,  the  latter  keep- 
ing his  equanimity  despite  the  insults  contained  in  the  proclama- 
tion of  Calamar. 

"  They  are  always  finding  pretexts  not  to  fight  those  who 
show  some  courage,"  said  Landaburo,  "  but  I  know  the  reason 
why." 

"And  what  is  it?"  asked  Polanco,  nettled  beyond  endur- 
ance and  confronting  the  other. 

"  Fear,  General." 

"All  right.  Let  us  fight,  then.  .  .  .  That  will  show  who 
the  timorous  are.  Everybody  disembark!  "  he  shouted  to  his 
men.  "  Let  us  take  the  fort."  His  stentorian  voice  rang  out 
like  a  trumpet.  "  Let  us  fight.  .  .  .  But  without  those  paper 
plans.  ...  To  the  fort!  " 

But  before  leaving  the  room  he  called  Landaburo  aside. 

"  We  two,  General,  shall  have  a  little  account  to  settle  .  .  . 
but  not  here  .  .  .  not  in  the  presence  of  the  army,  because 
we  should  finish  with  it.  ..." 

"If  you  wish,  General,  we  shall  embrace  in  front  of  the 
leaders.  I  could  issue  another  proclamation  which  might  be 
called:  'The  Handshaking.'  .  .  ." 

But  Polanco  turned  his  back  on  him  and  no  longer  heard 
Landaburo's  proposals.  He  rushed  forth  shouting:  "To  the 
trenches!  .  .  .  And  no  looking  back!  " 

He  had  the  trumpeter  give  the  proper  signals,  and  the  army, 
accustomed  to  follow  this  fiery  leader,  hurried  its  disembarka- 
tion with  enthusiasm. 

Within  a  few  instants  the  fort  was  swarming.     The  cannon 


404  PAX 

balls  began  again  their  thunderous  music,  and  this  was  soon 
after  drowned  by  the  multitudinous  roll  of  the  rifle  fire,  volley 
upon  volley.  The  attacking  soldiers  rose  in  serried  ranks 
against  the  fortifications,  hastening,  crowding  each  other.  In 
the  melee  the  different  battalions  were  mingled;  the  marching 
was  done  in  disorder,  without  a  concerted  movement,  like  that 
of  a  huge  street  mob.  Only  one  kind  of  unity  there  was  among 
them:  the  pushing  on  to  victory;  eagerness  to  arrive  with  the 
swiftest  possible  haste  at  the  trenches,  and  with  this  in  mind  they 
forgot  everything  else.  They  stared  at  what  was  ahead  of  them. 
They  were  bound  to  crumple  up  the  enemy  forces,  to  decimate 
them,  destroy  them. 

In  the  opposing  camp  Borrero  was  strolling  among  his  bat- 
teries, imperturbable,  serene.  His  guns  worked  like  a  charm 
and  with  stupendous  effect:  loading,  pointing,  shooting,  like 
clockwork. 

In  the  wall  of  flesh  that  was  advancing  rapidly,  there  were 
already  openings,  breaches.  The  assailants  were  swaying. 
The  bayonets  were  flashing  in  the  sunlight,  held  high.  The 
holes  in  the  wall  were  closed  up,  and  the  mass  was  again 
advancing,  steadily,  irresistibly.  Only  death  stopped  them. 
Their  ranks  were  thinning,  but  there  was  no  halt.  Many 
tottered,  many  fell,  their  feet  stumbled  over  dead  or  dying,  the 
wounded  shrieked  or  gasped  with  the  pain  of  their  injuries. 
But  the  wave  of  raging  humanity  was  irresistible.  The  fort 
was  now  full  of  attacking  masses.  In  this  exaltation  of  en- 
thusiasm, in  this  paroxysm  of  force  and  violence  no  words 
were  spoken,  gestures  were  the  sole  language,  and  these  said 
all,  fascinated  all,  pushed  them  on  to  their  murderous  work, 
electrified  them. 

Polanco  was  always  in  the  front  ranks,  brandishing  his 
sword  with  furor  and  this  spectacle  of  their  general  thus  ex- 
posing himself  to  danger,  drove  his  men  recklessly  on,  and 
they  climbed  the  steep  height  of  the  fort  embankment  on 
and  on,  to  conquer  or  die  with  their  chief.  With  a  mighty 
leap  Polanco  is  now  on  top  of  the  trench,  ...  his  men  are 
shouting  "  Victory,"  but  in  the  act  itself  Polanco  is  seen  throw- 
ing his  arms  wide  apart,  and  collapsing  in  a  heap. 

The  death  of  the  favorite  leader  of  the  army,  however,  in- 


PUERTO  BORJA  405 

stead  of  damping  their  courage,  merely  serves  to  inflame  them, 
and  with  an  access  of  furious  rage,  with  an  impetus  that 
nothing  can  stop  they  rush  on  like  bulls  into  the  arena. 

"  We  are  going  to  revenge  our  general,"  they  howl,  and  with 
fiercer  energy  than  ever  they  hurl  themselves  upon  the  enemy 
host.  There  was  a  terrific  shock,  a  clash  that  was  deafening. 
.  .  .  The  soldiers  of  Alejandro  fired  when  the  muzzles  of  their 
rifles  almost  touched  their  quarry.  But  despite  all  that  their 
commanders  could  do,  they  began  to  give  way.  The  red  flag  of 
the  Revolution  waved  in  the  redoubts  on  top  of  the  fortifica- 
tions over  piles  and  piles  of  the  slain. 

Alejandro  and  Borrero  reformed  their  broken  ranks.  With 
threats  and  entreaties  they  succeeded  in  stopping  the  flight  of 
their  men,  infusing  new  courage  into  the  hearts  even  of  the 
most  frightened.  Borrero,  carried  away  with  anger,  ran  his 
sword  through  two  of  his  fugitive  soldiers.  The  veterans  gath- 
ered for  a  counterattack.  They  turned  their  faces  towards  the 
enemy,  and  in  their  turn  assailed  those  who  sat  in  their  own 
strongholds.  Quickly  they  recovered  the  territory  they  had  lost 
and  made  themselves  masters  of  the  heights.  And  now  a  strug- 
gle, body  against  body,  like  two  enraged  duelists,  set  in  up 
there  which  exceeded  in  grimness  and  tenacity  anything  yet 
enacted.  For  the  possession  of  a  few  feet  of  ground;  for 
inches  even.  Each  side  fought  like  veritable  fiends.  Swaying 
to  and  fro,  yielding  and  gaining  anew,  the  two  opponents  did 
their  utmost  in  stubborn  valor.  There  was  now  no  gun  fire, 
only  fighting  hand  to  hand,  in  the  silence  of  supreme  effort 
and  despair.  Only  the  sinister  clatter  of  steel  meeting  steel, 
bayonet  or  machete  dropping  from  nerveless  grasp,  the  groan- 
ing of  men  desperately  wounded  or  dying,  the  shriek  of  mortal 
pain  or  of  victory, —  these  were  all  the  sounds  in  this  bloody 
drama  of  mass  murder. 

Casanova,  who,  on  disembarking  at  San  Pedro  del  Sinu,  had 
fallen  into  the  power  of  the  Revolutionist  forces,  had  been  taken 
prisoner  and  kept  on  board  the  Belle  garde  which,  with  the 
Ines,  contained,  as  he  knew,  immense  quantities  of  munition. 
Thanks  to  the  carelessness  of  his  keepers,  whose  attention  was 
completely  engaged  by  the  tremendous  struggle  above  described, 
which  they  could  observe  from  near-by,  Casanova,  who  enjoyed 


406  PAX 

a  certain  degree  of  liberty  within  the  vessel,  could  also  mark 
the  progress  of  the  obstinate  fight  and  saw  with  pain  how  his 
own  friends  were  driven  out  of  their  trenches. 

In  that  instant  he  determined  to  carry  out  a  plan  which 
had  previously  occurred  to  him  as  a  possibility.  The  place 
where  the  munitions  were  deposited  was  at  that  instant  unlocked 
and  easily  accessible,  in  order  to  serve  the  necessities  of  the 
combat  itself.  Casanova  took  two  gallons  of  petroleum  and 
cautiously  made  his  way  into  the  hold  of  the  vessel,  where 
he  poured  the  oil  over  the  boxes  and  other  containers  that 
enclosed  the  munitions,  gunpowder,  etc.  Then  he  used  a  hand- 
ful of  straw  to  set  the  whole  afire.  When  he  saw  the  flames 
leaping  up,  sure  of  the  success  of  his  plan,  he  jumped  into  the 
river,  swam  across,  gained  the  other  shore,  and  there  hid  be- 
hind the  thick  trunk  of  a  tree. 

The  ship's  hold  took  fire  like  tinder,  and  the  vessel  was  in 
an  inkling  one  mass  of  flames.  Casanova  saw  how  the  bow 
of  the  vessel  suddenly  lifted  high.  He  threw  himself  down  on 
the  ground  in  order  to  escape  flying  munitions  or  debris,  when 
the  ship  went  up  in  smoke.  .  .  .  There  was  a  tremendous  ex- 
plosion, shaking  the  mountains  even  and  making  the  very  soil 
tremble. 

An  instant  later  the  fire  leaped  over  to  the  Ines,  and  that 
ship  was,  within  the  space  of  a  few  minutes,  likewise  an 
ocean  of  flames.  Both  vessels  floating  slowly  on  the  water, 
drifted  down  the  river,  lower  and  lower. 

The  combatants  had  heard  the  first  explosion  which  stunned 
and  frightened  them  for  a  moment,  and  later  on  the  second. 
Shouts  were  raised :  "  The  vessels  are  burning !  The  muni- 
tions are  flying  up  in  the  air!  All  retreat  is  cut  off!  "  And 
these  cries  spread  and  soon  carried  despair  into  the  ranks 
of  the  Revolutionists.  Panic  seized  them.  The  struggle  it- 
self ended.  The  forces  of  Polanco,  now  suddenly  dominated 
by  unreasoning  fear,  yielded  the  disputed  territory  and  began 
to  flee. 

Landaburo,  seeing  the  disaster,  resolved  to  save  at  least  those 
ships  which  still  remained  to  him.  He  ordered  them  set  afloat, 
and  with  the  flotilla,  retired  once  more  to  Calamar. 

Pursuit,  however,  on  the  part  of  the  Government  forces  like- 
wise rapidly  grew  to  unheard-of  proportions;  it  was  carried 


PUERTO  BORJA  407 

out  with  an  impetus,  with  a  rage,  with  a  frenzy  almost,  that 
were  in  exact  proportion  to  the  desperate  character  of  the  previ- 
ous struggle.  Anger  at  the  defeat  and  the  frightful  losses 
sustained  at  the  beginning  of  the  fight  pushed  the  soldiers 
of  Alejandro  on  to  indiscriminate  vengeance.  The  intoxica- 
tion of  triumph  dominated  them,  the  effervescence  of  malice, 
the  giddiness  of  murderous  lust.  In  their  hearts  had  broken 
out  the  rabid  appetite  of  savage  beasts.  They  shouted  fear- 
ful deprecations,  curses,  maledictions  at  their  disheartened 
foes,  and  felt  an  insane  joy  in  mere  destruction,  in  the  convul- 
sions of  agony,  in  the  noise  and  the  bloody  power  of  their 
weapons,  in  horrible  mutilations,  in  hacked  members. 

Alejandro,  for  whom,  to  be  sure,  the  momentary  defeat  of  his 
battalions  had  been  a  keen  pain,  an  acute  shame,  wounding  his 
pride  as  much  as  if  it  had  been  a  deadly  and  bloody  insult, 
also  felt  himself  enveloped  for  a  few  moments  in  a  very  clod 
of  blood.  In  his  bosom  there  raged  a  storm  of  malignant  feel- 
ings, and  he  launched  himself  ferociously  upon  the  now  re- 
treating enemy.  But  in  this  short  spell  of  fury  there  appeared 
before  his  eyes  and  conscience  the  emaciated  face  of  a  loved 
one,  with  two  blue  eyes  of  unspeakable  fascination.  Then 
his  soul  was  swept  by  a  sentiment  of  compassion,  and  all  de- 
sire for  revenge  was  forthwith  stifled. 

At  the  risk  of  his  own  life  he  suddenly  threw  himself  be- 
tween the  pursuer  and  the  pursued.  He  held  his  soldiers  back 
from  further  slaughter.  He  interposed  himself  between  the 
butcher  and  his  victim.  He  made  his  authority  felt.  He 
saved  the  life  of  the  conquered.  He  punished  those  victors 
who  were  implacable. 

Alejandro  and  General  Borrerro  organized  the  ambulance. 
The  battlefield  suddenly  was  invaded  by  stretcher-bearers  and 
the  wounded  were  picked  up  with  care  and  conveyed  to  field 
hospitals.  Alejandro  even  showed  preference  for  his  late 
enemies,  and  he  looked  for  and  gathered  in  his  arms  many  of 
them,  lavished  caressing  words  on  them,  treated  them  like 
brothers,  like  equals.  And  as  he  did  so  he  felt  that  the 
white  apparition  smiled  approvingly. 

The  shadows  fell  on  the  two  armies,  hungry,  worn  out  with 
the  ferocious  fighting  of  the  day.  In  the  silence  of  the  night 
there  is  better  heard  the  interminable  lament  rising  from  such 


408  PAX 

camps,  a  lament  in  which  cries  of  pain  mingle  with  cries  of 
hope,  with  gentle  sighs  of  approaching  death, —  cries  like  those 
of  little  children. 

And  meanwhile  the  vessels  set  afire  slowly  drift  down  the 
river,  halt  at  times  before  obstacles,  are  delayed  at  banks, 
knock  themselves  against  big  rocks,  set  aflame  the  foliage  of 
huge  trees  under  whose  shade  they  have  found  momentary 
rest.  They  pass  on,  lighting  up  with  their  gigantic  luridness 
the  lonesome  spots  on  the  long  journey,  and  like  messengers  of 
devastation,  with  the  noise  of  a  cataclysm,  these  winged  fiery 
heralds  will  tell  the  savage  creatures  of  the  wilderness  that 
they  may  at  their  ease  continue  to  watch  over  their  domains, — 
that  these  savage  forests,  these  inmeasurable  plains  have  once 
more  turned  away  from  awakening  civilization  and  resumed 
their  old  lethargy,  their  animosity  to  all  progress, —  that  they 
have  dropped  back  into  barbarism. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

ONCE    MORE   THE   ROSES 

MONTELLANO  and  Dolores,  journeying  from  Bogota  to  Honda, 
and  having  left  behind  them  the  small  settlement  of  Guaduas 
with  its  little  white  houses,  half  hidden  between  the  plumes 
of  the  bamboo  plants,  were  now  beginning  to  descend  the  steep 
path  which,  winding  along  finally  ended  on  the  plain  that  led  to 
El  Consuelo.  To  the  eyes  of  Don  Ramon  and  his  daughter, 
habituated  to  landscapes  illuminated  by  a  tempered  light  such 
as  was  the  case,  too,  in  those  places  through  which  they  had 
come,  the  immense  panorama  of  the  valleys  along  the  Mag- 
dalena  which  now  opened  to  their  view,  an  unlimited  phan- 
tasmagoria which  in  sun-swept  majesty  extended  all  the  dis- 
tance to  the  very  crest  of  the  opposite  chain  of  tall  peaks, 
came  as  a  surprise. 

Before  reaching  El  Consuelo,  they  saw  the  building  of  a  mod- 
est wayside  inn,  half  screened  from  view  by  trees,  and  noticed 
with  terror  that  its  beams  were  charred  by  fire,  that  the  roof 
had  been  likewise  destroyed,  that  its  blackened  ruins  lay  on 
the  ground  nearby,  amidst  the  rubbish  merely  some  broken 


ONCE  MORE  THE  ROSES  409 

poles,  the  fences  that  had  enclosed  a  small  adjoining  tract  of 
tilled  land  torn  to  fragments.  On  this  small  field  there  lay 
prone  a  blackish  mass.  The  mules  scented  this  and  backed 
uneasily  from  it.  Montellano  whipped  his  team  close  to  this 
forbidding  spot. 

"  Father,  oh,  father,"  warned  Dolores,  turning  her  eyes 
away  from  the  sight,  "  this  is  the  inventor,  it  is  ..." 

"  Yes,  it's  Sanchez  de  Pefianegra,"  shrieked  Montellano, 
horrorstruck. 

They  saw  a  dark  stain  on  his  chest,  the  frail,  thin  body 
stretched  out,  the  hands  very  white,  the  face  wax-like,  the 
expression  somewhat  sickly  and  yet  sweet,  with  its  usual  in- 
offensive placidity  that  the  murdered  man  had  preserved  even 
in  death. 

But  there  now  began  to  appear  from  the  other  direction, 
along  the  road  that  led  upwards,  dimly  seen  through  bushes 
and  trees,  the  rifles  of  an  escort,  then  the  hats,  next  the  bodies 
of  soldiers  on  foot,  and  also  of  three  persons  riding  mules. 

"  General  Ronderos,"  exclaimed  Montellano,  instinctively 
feeling  the  shock  of  a  possible  fate  such  as  that  of  Pefianegra. 

The  veteran  military  leader  was  indeed  seated  on  the  back 
of  a  mule,  his  body  bent  and  his  hat  falling  over  his  face. 
When  he  had  been  carried  close  to  the  little  house,  he  attempted 
to  dismount  without  help,  but  was  unable  to  do  so,  and  had  to 
accept,  much  to  his  annoyance,  the  assistance  of  his  aides. 

"Wounded,  General?"  asked  Montellano,  seeing  him  so 
pale  and  exhausted. 

"  No,  friend,"  replied  the  other  in  a  half -strangled  voice. 
"It  is  merely  the  fever  from  down  there  .  .  .  and  the  grief 
to  see  this  part  of  the  country  in  this  condition." 

He  said  no  more.  The  aides,  spreading  out  some  clothing, 
made  a  sort  of  couch  for  their  chief  in  the  center  of  the  room. 
The  old  general  dropped  down  on  it  like  a  dead  load,  and  lay 
there  quite  inanimate  for  a  while.  The  crude  sunlight,  pene- 
trating the  space  through  the  broken  roof,  glittered  upon  the 
hilt  of  the  sword  and  spread  itself  about  the  somber  eyes  that 
lay  deep  in  their  sockets,  imparting  to  the  General's  counten- 
ance the  color  of  old  ivory;  the  bony  face,  with  its  strongly 
pronounced  cheekbones  and  the  sharp,  angular  nose  and  fore- 
head stood  out  more  clearly.  As  he  lay  thus  stretched  out  his 


410  PAX 

breath  came  and  went  feverishly,  feebly,  with  much   fatigue. 

Now  his  army  began  to  arrive:  a  mass  of  exhausted  soldiers, 
some  dying,  others  displaying  horrible  wounds,  eaten  up  by 
fever  —  a  grievous  sight.  A  number  of  them  carried  two  or 
three  rifles,  in  order  to  relieve  those  who  were  too  feeble  to  carry 
their  own.  They  went  up  the  steep  slope  without  speaking 
without  cheerful  songs,  without  a  smile,  heads  hanging  low, 
crawling  painfully  along.  Scarcely  a  groan  was  heard,  or  a 
moan  of  fatigue.  All  the  faces  bore  the  impress  of  sadness,  of 
weariness,  of  death. 

Just  then  there  was  seen,  coming  up  through  the  waste  land 
through  which  wound  the  path  in  the  rear,  a  number  of  riders 
from  among  whom  there  could  be  heard,  more  and  more  dis- 
tinctly, the  humming  and  rumbling  of  a  well-known  voice. 
Above  the  rattle  of  the  harness  and  the  conversations  of  the 
peons,  fragments  of  phrases  found  their  way. 

"  I  have  enough  time  for  everything.  .  .  .  The  hospital. 
.  .  .  The  problem  of  peace.  ...  A  general  reconciliation  and 
embracing.  .  .  .  The  model  ambulance.  .  .  .  This  will  be  for 
twenty  years.  ..." 

The  voices  came  nearer. 

"  General  Ronderos,  here  I  am.  .  .  .  Here  you  have  your 
friend  Gonzalez  Mogollon,  after  a  lapse  of  eight  months.  I  am 
always  on  the  road  where  my  duty  in  the  service  of  poor  suf- 
fering humanity  takes  me  ...  at  the  orders  of  the  great  heroes 
who  are  dying  for  their  country.  Here  I  have  it,  camp  bed 
No.  1234  of  the  Model  Ambulance,  organized  by  official  de- 
cree and  with  rules  established  by  me,  despite  all  my  mani- 
fold and  absorbing  occupations.  .  .  .  What  a  campaign  was 
yours,  ...  we  have  learned  of  your  condition.  .  .  .  This  mule 
does  not  step  along  very  well.  .  .  .  And  I  am  all  the  time  over- 
coming the  most  insuperable  difficulties,  as  a  recruit  of  the  good 
cause  should.  .  .  .  Sefior  Montellano,  you  here,  too?  ...  And 
it's  easy  to  be  seen  that  you  are  now  on  the  way  to  la  Danta  — 
all  that  you  have  left,  according  to  what  you  say,"  and  Gon- 
zalez made  this  last  remark  very  deliberately. 

"  Yes,  I'm  a  ruined  man.  ...  I  have  not  even  a  place  in 
which  to  lie  when  I  am  dead.  I  am  going  to  bury  myself,  and 
we'll  have  to  put  another  tall  taper  in  the  chapel  at  Danta." 

Those  around  the  speaker  smiled  with  a  mutual  smile  of  in- 


ONCE  MORE  THE  ROSES  411 

telligence.  They  all  knew  that  the  millionaire,  ever  since  the 
outbreak  of  the  war,  had  himself  spread  the  rumor  that  he 
was  entirely  ruined,  so  as  to  escape  forced  loans  and  exactions 
from  both  armies. 

General  Ronderos  rose  to  leave.  The  cold  chills  had  taken 
hold  of  him  again.  The  tall  bundle  of  bones  was  shaking 
and  shivering.  His  teeth  were  chattering,  and  his  face  began 
to  show  livid  spots,  as  though  he  were  dying. 

"  Before  you  go  away,  General,"  said  Montellano,  "  is  the 
river  safe?  Is  there  no  danger?  " 

"  None  whatever,"  replied  Ronderos,  stammering  with  the 
fever.  "  After  his  defeat  at  Puerto  Borja  they  had  been  gather- 
ing the  vessels  that  Landaburo  had  been  seizing.  .  .  .  He  him- 
self, with  a  handful  of  followers,  has  taken  refuge  in  the  moun- 
tains. Good-day,  gentlemen." 

And  he  went  towards  his  mule. 

"  General,  the  camp  bed  .  .  ." 

"  No,  Friend  Gonzalez.  I  and  a  field  bed  ?  A  thousand 
thanks." 

He  tried  a  smile,  which  bared  his  pale  gums,  and  then  went 
ahead,  assisted  by  his  aides.  A  keen  physical  pain  of  which 
he  did  not  want  to  complain,  contracted  his  features. 

The  army  had  formed  along  the  road.  They  were  going  to 
render  the  honors  of  his  rank  to  him. 

"  General,"  Gonzalez  wanted  to  know,  "  is  this  all  that  is 
left  of  the  famous  army  of  the  Atlantic  .  .  .  eight  thousand 
men.  ...  I  am  certain  .  .  .  eight  thousand  outfits  I  handed 
over  myself  to  the  model  workshops  founded  by  myself,  and 
these  were  sent  on  to  Madellin  more  than  six  months  ago." 

"  Yes,  friend,  .  .  .  the  famous  army,"  replied  the  general, 
with  another  shudder  from  his  fever.  "  You  see  for  yourself 
what  is  left  of  it.  A  thousand  men!  Or  rather,  a  thousand 
skeletons!  " 

He  started  to  walk  his  mule,  with  his  face  turned  towards 
the  ranks  bent  deep  over  his  beast.  The  commanding  officers, 
unsheathed  sword  in  hand,  gave  their  commands  in  brief,  curt 
sentences.  The  trumpets  sounded  the  salute  to  the  general-in- 
chief;  it  was  a  warlike  march  the  stirring  strains  of  which 
rose  and  floated  away,  filling  the  great  space  between  the  wilder- 
ness and  the  silence  of  the  mountain  range  far  off  in  the 


412  PAX 

distance.  And  at  the  sound  of  their  chief's  well-known  voice, 
and  the  strains  of  that  music,  all  those  men  bent  and  bowed, 
all  those  bodies  bled  almost  to  death,  all  these  rows  of  skele- 
tons, instinctively  became  erect,  presented  arms  with  trembling 
hands,  throwing  their  heads  back,  as  though  galvanized,  with 
a  new  spirit,  a  new  courage,  with  a  last  fire  of  pride  in  their 
pupils. 

The  general,  still  bent  over  his  saddle,  shivering,  passed  up 
and  down  the  ranks,  climbed  up  the  slope,  and  the  trumpeters 
blew  their  longest  and  best,  blew  a  blast  that  sounded,  in  face 
of  this  sinister  spectacle,  almost  like  a  cry  of  anguish,  like 
a  last  farewell  to  their  dying  chief. 

They  went  off,  disappearing  in  dusty  distance,  and  soon  after 
there  could  only  be  seen,  along  the  crooked  road  they  followed, 
the  glitter  of  their  bayonets  and  the  white  cloth  of  the  stretch- 
ers. 

Dolores  took  the  direction  of  the  summit  which  began  to  ap- 
pear some  distance  off  in  the  torrid  plain.  A  frightful  noise 
made  her  turn  her  eyes.  The  bed  of  withered  leaves  that  cov- 
ered the  ground  crackled  with  a  multitude  of  scampering  lizards. 
A  very  large  butterfly  which  in  balancing  itself  either  set  its 
velvety  wings  aflame  with  reflected  sunlight  or  else  seemed  to 
steep  their  bright  blue  in  shadow,  was  fluttering  about  near  her. 
This  small  detail  brought  back  memories  of  that  far-away 
morning  when,  amidst  the  song  of  birds  and  the  cheerful  talk  of 
travelers,  full  of  zest  and  hopes,  she  had  been  on  her  way  with 
her  father  to  the  Capital,  buoyed  up  with  vague  ideas  of  con- 
quest. The  afternoon  sun  gave  now  trembling  outlines  to  the 
distant  view,  was  drying  up  the  puddles  near  the  roadside,  was 
absorbing  the  vapors  of  the  deeps,  and  spread  through  the  whole 
atmosphere  a  bluish  tint  which,  diffusing  itself  throughout  the 
heated  air,  paled  the  bright  yellow  of  the  bamboo  groves,  the  red 
glamour  of  the  flowers  and  the  metallic  sheen  of  the  palm  leaves. 

In  her  thoughts  she  began  to  compare  the  two  panoramas,  the 
two  epochs.  It  was  still  the  same  landscape,  the  same  river, 
which  over  yonder  was  flashing  from  between  sandy  shores, — 
the  same  clumps  of  groves  and  forests  which,  in  diminishing 
sizes,  were  lost  in  the  prodigious  background,  the  same  welter 
of  summits  and  mountain  tops,  the  same  confused  profiles  of 
interminable  mountain  fagades.  .  .  .  But  already  the  symphony 


ONCE  MORE  THE  ROSES  413 

of  the  dawn  of  life  was  gone,  the  merry  mood  that  awoke  her 
on  the  morrow,  the  idyll  of  the  first  hours,  the  music  of  the  twit- 
terings in  the  wilderness  of  cane  or  reeds.  At  present  it  was  but 
the  splendor  of  devastation;, the  earth  itself  exhausted  and  som- 
nolent, enveloped  in  its  petrified  serenity;  it  was  an  amphithea- 
ter of  reddish  mountain  sides,  extenuation  and  fatigue,  a  silence 
of  sadness  which  became  tedious  with  its  eternal  monotony;  big 
compact  clouds,  like  heaps  of  copper,  which  stood  out  against 
the  violet-hued  shadows  of  the  great  distance. 

Nothing  was  astir,  nothing  was  apparently  alive,  nothing  was 
singing  within  this  enormous  space  gone  to  rest  and  sleep, —  in 
this  scorched  world,  in  the  dramatic  wilderness  of  the  mountain 
ranges,  in  the  mournful  majesty  of  the  whole  panorama,  over 
which  was  floating  an  atmosphere  of  weariness  and  suffering,  a 
mist  of  boundless  despair. 

She  drew  a  parallel  between  the  two  panoramas  and  the  two 
epochs.  But  she  felt  that  the  panorama  of  that  morning  now 
gone  was  like  a  landscape  limned  by  a  youthful  painter  possess- 
ing a  vigorous  hand,  a  hand  that  traced  the  lines  with  accuracy 
and  force,  which  intensified  the  tints  and  gave  to  the  colors 
freshness  and  clearness  .  .  .  while  this  same  landscape  now 
seemed  but  a  copy  made  by  the  uncertain  and  trembling  hand 
of  an  old  man,  who  traced  the  outlines  without  firmness,  and 
who  put  into  all  the  neutral  tints  of  his  sated  pupil  the  inertia 
of  a  worn-out  heart. 

All  at  once  Dolores  with  a  sudden  dread  heard  shots  being 
fired.  Nothing  was  to  be  seen.  Only  here  and  there,  amongst 
the  waste  places,  were  to  be  noticed  flashes  in  the  pan;  puffs 
of  smoke  were  rising  which  became  more  and  more  fiery  as  the 
shadows  increased.  Yonder  there  came  out  of  the  thicket  a 
small  band  of  infantrymen  who  started  to  go  in  the  direction  of 
El  Consuelo  along  the  highroad.  From  spot  to  spot  they  turned 
around,  aimed  and  fired,  and  then  continued  mounting  the 
heights  on  the  same  road. 

The  leader  of  this  band  stopped,  gave  several  orders,  and  with 
great  anger  brandished  his  machete,  at  the  same  time  threaten- 
ing the  fugitives.  But  he  was  unable  to  make  them  obey  him. 
The  road  was  soon  full  of  people  who  passed  in  front  of  the 
house,  and  continued  their  flight  up  the  slope. 

They  passed  near  Dolores:  their  appearance  was  that  of  va- 


4H  PAX 

grants,  clad  in  rags,  half  naked,  besmeared  with  mire.  They 
seemed  to  be  hard  pushed,  and  while  struggling  up  the  steep 
declivities  they  were  panting,  gazing  behind  them  with  great 
fear,  and  then  resumed  their  flight  again. 

For  two  months  now  Roberto,  meaning  to  set  the  Count  free, 
had  been  pursuing  Socarraz,  and  the  guerrilla  chieftain,  agile, 
tireless,  never  leaving  his  own  neighborhood,  going  to  and  fro 
in  a  territory  where  he  had  friends  and  partizans,  was  fleeing, 
always  avoiding  a  fight;  he  fell  upon  his  victims  like  a  bird  of 
prey,  then  made  good  his  escape  again,  roamed  through  the 
great  plains  of  Tolima,  hid  in  the  mountains,  slipped  through 
narrow  passes,  and  by  audacious  maneuvers,  was  able,  even 
when  hardest  beset,  to  interpose  the  Magdalena  River  between 
himself  and  Roberto.  But  at  last  the  latter  had  succeeded  in 
driving  him  away  from  the  right  shore  of  the  river  and  taking 
measures  preventing  his  return  there.  He  had  also  closed  all 
avenues  of  escape  for  him,  and  since  the  day  before  Roberto  had 
been  chasing  him  without  a  minute's  stop,  having  taken  no  rest. 
One  single  road  had  been  left  open  for  the  fugitive, —  the  high- 
road where  the  forces  of  General  Ronderos  were  in  power. 

Dolores  heard  shots  coming  from  the  heights,  then  an  increase 
of  firing,  and  the  sound  of  the  shooting  came  nearer  and. nearer. 
Then  the  fleeing  band  turned  and  passed  right  in  front  of  her, 
but  in  disorder  and  each  seeking  safety  for  himself,  frantic  with 
fear,  panic-struck,  throwing  arms  away,  and  in  desperate  mood, 
crowding  in  a  heap  in  the  small  space  before  the  house.  Socar- 
raz, distributing  his  menaces,  insults  and  threats  among  them, 
stops,  assembles  and  reunites  his  soldiers  again,  and  to  encour- 
age them  he  rushes  back  towards  his  enemies  who  are  meanwhile 
coming  up  from  the  path  below.  But  suddenly  he  begins  to 
shriek  with  rage,  totters,  and  then  falls. 

"  It's  my  leg.     Damnation!     To  the  dark  gap!  " 

They  put  him  on  a  stretcher,  and  then  take  to  a  transverse 
path,  behind  the  house,  when  they  begin  to  run  with  great  speed. 

Unexpectedly,  amidst  the  clinking  of  the  harnesses,  the  sounds 
of  clashing  steel,  and  shouts  and  maledictions,  Dolores  sets  eyes 
on  Maraton  and  hears  at  the  same  time  a  beloved  voice: 

"  You  go  and  cover  the  road  to  Bogota!  Up  that  way!  "  she 
hears  Roberto  shout  to  some  of  his  men. 

"  Over  that  way  I  hear  shots !  "  he  goes  on.  .  .  . 


ONCE  MORE  THE  ROSES  415 

"  Now  there  is  no  way  out  for  him,  and  chance  is  aiding  us. 
I  put  the  rearguard  here.  It  is  two  months  since  the  Scorpion 
is  causing  me  this  trouble,  but  at  last  I  have  him  bottled  up. 
You're  in  my  hands  at  last!  " 

"Roberto!  "  exclaimed  Dolores. 

And  she  rushes  at  him,  with  her  arms  opened  wide.  She 
calls  a  second  time  to  him,  but  the  horsemen,  with  their  leader 
at  their  head,  at  this  instant  are  disappearing  on  some  brambly 
fields.  And  simultaneously  Montellano  comes  crawling  out  of 
the  house  on  all  fours. 

"  Dolores  .  .  .  where  are  you  ?  Let  us  flee !  That  was 
Escorpion!  They  will  murder  us  ...  loans  .  .  .  ransom 
...  we  have  but  two  mules  left.  .  .  .  They  will  treat  us  as 
they  did  Sanchez  de  Penanegra.  ..." 

"  I  believe  they  are  coming  back;  let  us  wait." 

"  Let  him  come  back !  ...  We  must  flee !  " 

"  If  it  is  Roberto,  papa,  ...  I  hear  him.  .  .  .  They  may 
wound  him.  .  .  .  We  must  wait  for  him !  " 

The  pursuers  from  up  the  hillside  now  began  to  arrive.  An 
aide  of  Ronderos  offered  his  services  to  Montellano  and  his 
daughter. 

"  Let  us  get  out  of  this  .  .  .  quick !  "  Don  Ramon  kept  shout- 
ing. "  I  have  to  go  to  Honda.  ...  I  would  rather  stay  down 
there.  ...  An  escort.  .  .  .  They  may  return." 

"  In  an  instant." 

They  mounted  their  beasts,  took  the  road,  and  were  lost  to 
view  among  the  trees. 

Roberto  meanwhile  had  continued  the  pursuit  of  the  guerrilla 
chief,  who  all  this  time  had  kept  firing  upon  his  pursuers.  The 
firing  ceased. 

"Surrender,  Escorpion!"  shouted  Roberto.  "You  cannot 
escape  this  time.  Surrender!  " 

But  only  silence  answered  him.  They  rushed  down  a  decliv- 
ity, until  a  precipice  halted  them.  The  members  of  the  guer- 
rilla band  seemed  to  have  vanished. 

It  was  almost  night.  This  flight,  however,  appeared  inex- 
plicable. The  two  exits  were  both  watched  and  the  fugitives 
surrounded.  The  abyss  was  yawning  down  below,  frightful, 
and  it  opened  almost  from  the  very  top.  And  down  there,  in 
the  darkness,  the  roar  of  the  water  could  be  clearly  heard. 


416  PAX 

"Nothing  again,  as  always!  They  evaporate.  .  .  .  The 
earth  swallows  them  up,"  said  Roberto. 

With  his  men  Roberto  camped  for  the  night  at  the  very  verge 
of  the  precipice.  From  time  to  time  the  dog  started  to  howl, 
ran  towards  the  opening  in  the  rock,  circled  around  the  abyss, 
sniffed,  searched  with  great  restlessness,  leaped  to  one  side  or  the 
other,  then  returned  to  Roberto,  approached  him  with  a  low 
growl,  and  lay  finally  down  near  the  bonfire  the  men  had  lit. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Maraton?  " 

The  dog  wagged  his  tail,  put  his  head  affectionately  between 
Roberto's  knees,  closed  his  eyes  and  appeared  to  go  to  sleep, 
but  suddenly  shook  his  ears,  straightened  himself,  glanced  to- 
wards the  shadow,  and  in  two  leaps  went  back,  dived  down  into 
the  depths,  and  was  lost  in  the  mist  below.  His  howls  were 
heard  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  and  then  he  returned  to  his 
master  to  lay  his  head  once  more  between  his  knees. 

Dawn  came;  the  trumpets  saluted  the  new  day  with  the  lively 
tune  of  the  reveille.  Roberto,  filled  with  curiosity,  started  an 
investigation,  accompanied  by  his  officers.  The  dog,  still  rest- 
less, went  to  the  cut  in  the  big  rock,  howled,  and  returned  to 
his  master. 

"What  is  it,  Maraton?     Search!     Search!  " 

The  dog  started  off  with  a  whimper  of  pleasure,  turned  his 
head,  went  further,  and  when  at  the  mouth  of  the  gap  in  the 
rock  he  set  up  a  tremendous  barking,  a  most  strident  howl, 
which  was  echoed  by  all  the  surrounding  rocks,  and  when  Ro- 
berto himself  approached  the  abyss,  bending  carefully  over  it,  he 
discovered  a  broken  branch  which  was  still  hanging  over  the 
void;  on  the  margin  he  saw  numerous  tracks,  and  further  below 
he  made  out  the  iron  bar  of  a  ladder. 

"  Ah,"  he  exclaimed,  "  here  we  are.  There  is  a  ladder.  .  .  . 
That  is  how  they  have  escaped  us  so  many  times.  ..." 

A  deep  silence  reigned  while  these  men,  squeezing  each  other 
carefully  above  that  abyss,  were  going  down  towards  what  was 
hiding  within  the  deep  darkness  of  the  big  rock.  Rendered 
scarcely  intelligible  by  reason  of  the  rushing  sound  of  the  river, 
there  came  up  the  scattered  words  of  those  below: 

"  There  is  nobody  here,  General,"  shouted  Casanova.  "  The 
enemy  has  fled." 

But  Roberto  placed  some  good  marksmen  around  in  order  to 


ONCE  MORE  THE  ROSES  417 

protect  the  descending  party,  and  told  the  rest  of  his  troopers  to 
climb  down  cautiously.  That  task,  an  easy  one  for  these  guer- 
rilla men  used  to  hard  labor  of  every  kind,  was  rather  hard  for 
his  men.  First  they  found  wild  weeds  growing  in  the  crevices 
of  the  rock,  then  the  bars  of  a  solid  ladder,  and  lower  down  some 
holes  in  the  rock  made  with  the  pickax,  which  it  was  necessary 
to  feel  about  for  with  the  feet.  But  they  arrived  at  the  bottom 
at  last,  where  the  river  took  several  turns  in  its  bed  with  a  roar- 
ing noise,  pent  up  as  it  was  between  two  cuts  of  the  mountains, 
and  screened  by  the  overhanging  forest.  A  slough  in  which 
deep  foot  tracks  were  to  be  seen,  indicated  clearly  in  which  di- 
rection the  fugitives  had  gone.  In  spots  blood  marked  the  deep 
layers  of  decayed  leaves. 

After  a  rather  painful  march  during  which  their  feet  were 
torn  by  the  thorny  bushes,  the  party  arrived  at  last  at  a  huge 
dark  opening,  formed  by  some  sliding  of  the  mountain  side. 
There  were  two  rocks  which  on  top  allowed  bits  of  the  sky  to  be 
seen  through  the  dense  cedar  branches.  The  party  halted.  An 
overpowering  odor  of  fetid  decay  seemed  to  be  the  sole  obstruc- 
tion. A  number  of  vultures  could  be  seen  moving  about  on  the 
top  of  the  rocks.  Their  black  wings  stood  out  clear  against  the 
blue  atmosphere,  and  these  birds  had  their  bills  turned  towards 
the  abyss  above  them,  sniffing  the  carrion,  while  others  of  their 
number,  at  the  entrance  of  the  cavelike  break  in  the  rocks  were 
hobbling  about  wrangling  with  each  other  for  the  possession  of 
a  dead  body.  A  big  fire,  half  dead  now,  sent  up  its  spirals  of 
smoke,  while  its  sparse  flames  lit  up  the  rock  itself  and  flick- 
ered between  the  branches  of  trees.  The  soldiers,  not  knowing 
where  the  enemy  might  be  in  hiding,  kept  their  arms  ready  for 
instant  use,  while  the  dog  began  to  howl  and  growl,  a  token  of 
the  near  presence  of  the  fugitives.  They  then  rushed  towards 
the  great  opening  along  the  only  visible  path,  a  very  narrow  one. 

They  noticed  in  advancing,  in  the  grove  of  trees,  a  number  of 
corpses  of  prisoners,  nailed  down  on  stakes.  Passing  on  far- 
ther, they  next  discovered,  further  back  in  the  hole  in  the  rock, 
where  the  stone  formed  a  sort  of  roof,  and  a  wide  natural  cave 
was  visible  —  what  had  evidently  been  the  storage  house  of  the 
band  of  guerrilleros.  There  were  piled  up  in  orderly  fashion 
pyramids  of  bales  of  goods,  heaps  of  merchandise,  boxes  of 
liquors,  all  in  separate  bulk,  and  silkstuffs,  velvets,  cloths,  fine 


418  PAX 

jewelry.  Near  by  there  were  broken  valises,  objects  of  daily 
use,  such  as  shirts,  shoes,  pocket  books.  .  .  . 

Roberto  chanced  to  find  among  this  heap  a  leather  valise 
lined  with  canvas,  and  read  on  the  card  attached  to  it:  "  Comte 
Bellegarde,  Cabin." 

"  He  has  perished.  .  .  .  Where  shall  I  look  for  him?  "  And 
he  thought  with  horror  of  the  vultures  and  the  corpses  seen  in 
the  robbers'  stronghold. 

He  advanced  toward  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  followed  by  Casa- 
nova. He  grasped  a  large  stone  and  threw  it  towards  the  inte- 
rior. There  was  a  flash  at  the  very  end  of  the  cave,  a  shot  was 
heard,  and  then  a  shout.  The  whole  detachment  of  soldiers 
rushed  up,  believing  that  their  leader  had  been  wounded,  but  he 
was  unhurt.  Casanova,  however,  who  had  been  behind  him, 
had  received  a  bullet  in  the  arm. 

"  Go  to  the  rear,  boys,"  shouted  Roberto. 

He  made  them  retire  some  distance.  They  brought  lights, 
and  then  they  advanced  with  caution,  holding  their  rifles  ready. 
In  the  back  of  the  cave  there  were  two  human  beings,  both  of 
them  lying  on  the  ground.  The  soldiers  drew  near.  They 
found  them  to  be  Socarraz,  who  was  still  grasping  his  revolver, 
and  Bellegarde,  who  attempted  to  rise.  Roberto  knelt  down  at 
the  side  of  the  Count,  and  was  filled  with  terror  at  the  sight 
of  his  cadaverous  countenance,  his  air  of  indescribable  sorrow 
and  wretchedness. 

Some  of  the  soldiers  had  disarmed  Socarraz  who,  mute  and 
grim,  rolled  his  wrathful  eyes  around,  glittering  from  fever  in  his 
flushed  face.  Roberto  turned  toward  Socarraz. 

"How  do  you  feel,  my  poor  Escoprion,  under  these  present 
cricumstances ?  Have  you  fever?" 

But  he  kept  silent,  and  only  moved  his  lips  with  a  gesture  of 
bitter  scorn. 

"Do  you  want  water.  ...  I  mean,  of  course,  brandy?" 
added  Roberto.  "  Here  you  are." 

The  man  drank  eagerly,  noisily. 

"  Let  us  see  your  wound.  ...  Is  it  the  arm?     No,  the  leg." 

Roberto  cut  the  linen  strips  around  the  wound  with  his 
knife:  it  was  a  gunshot  in  the  knee.  Socarraz  at  last  opened 
his  lips. 

"  If  it  were  not  for  that  fall  down  there,  Don  Roberto,"  he 


ONCE  MORE  THE  ROSES  419 

said.  ..."  And  those  cowards  of  mine  who  ran  away  as  soon 
as  I  could  no  longer  lead  them.  .  .  .  Without  that  it  would  be 
you  in  my  power  .  .  .  damnation !  " 

They  hastily  bandaged  Casanova's  injury,  and  then  made 
stretchers  for  the  two  out  of  branches  and  twigs  tied  with  tough 
vines. 

"  Ah,  those  wounds,"  said  Roberto.  "  What  a  trouvaille  for 
Gonzalez  Mogollon.  ...  A  general,  a  colonel,  and  a  count. 
...  He  would  gladly  bring  us  three  of  his  camp  beds,  his  own 
models,  numbered  1234,  1235  and  1236.  .  .  ." 

They  placed  Socarraz  on  one  of  these  hurriedly  constructed 
stretchers.  As  they  prepared  him  for  the  journey,  he  dropped 
a  card  case.  Roberto  opened  it,  and  the  wounded  man  showed 
signs  of  great  uneasiness. 

"  Do  not  touch  that!  "  he  moaned.  "  These  are  letters  from 
Encarnacion!  " 

Then  he  addressed  Roberto.  "  My  letters !  "  he  said.  "  And 
you  can  buy  these  pickings  of  me,  Don  Roberto.  I  shall  let  you 
have  them  cheap,"  he  shouted,  as  he  was  carried  off.  "  That 
grieves  me,  this  matter.  ...  I  do  not  care  a  rap  that  you  now 
know  this  hiding  place.  .  .  .  Now  for  another  hole!  ...  It  is 
not  necessary  for  your  men  to  pass  along  the  same  way  you 
came.  .  .  .  The  devil  take  this  cursed  leg  of  mine!  " 

Roberto  now  approached  the  Count,  whom  he  had  had  laid 
on  a  couch  on  the  floor.  In  the  light  he  could  perceive  the 
incredible  state  in  which  he  was,  his  emaciation,  his  deathlike 
pallor.  He  saw  with  sorrow  that  he  was  near  death. 

Bellegarde  tendered  his  hand,  long,  bony,  bloodless,  and  it  fell 
heavily  at  his  side.  Roberto  knelt  once  more  at  his  side,  and 
took  the  hand,  trying  to  warm  it  against  his  breast. 

His  respiration  was  scarcely  perceptible,  and  his  eyes,  those 
same  eyes  that  had  expressed  so  much  will  power  and  confi- 
dence, were  half  closed. 

"  Roberto,"  whispered  the  Count,  "  I  should  like  to  speak  to 
you,  alone." 

And  Roberto,  without  turning  around,  made  his  soldiers  re- 
tire some  distance. 

Bellegarde  drew  a  long  sigh,  and  over  his  noble  countenance 
there  passed  the  shadows  of  approaching  death.  He  remained 
silent  for  a  time,  but  then,  after  a  great  effort,  he  murmured : 


420  PAX 

"  Yes,  ...  I  want  to  speak  to  you  of  Ines.  .  .  ." 

He  opened  his  eyes  wide,  and  in  their  depths  Roberto  saw  a 
tear  glisten.  For  an  instant  a  gracious  smile  lit  up  his  stricken 
features,  and  a  slight  convulsion  shook  his  feeble  frame. 

In  accents  hardly  audible,  drawing  a  deep  breath  after  every 
word,  as  though  each  came  from  the  bottom  of  his  soul,  he 
muttered : 

"  Tell  her  .  .  .  that  she  was  my  first  love  .  .  .  my  last 
love.  .  .  ." 

His  voice  with  every  syllable  became  more  broken,  more  halt- 
ing. Each  new  effort  stifled  him.  He  went  on: 

"  In  my  portfolio  .  .  .  you  will  find  petals  of  the  Castilian 
roses  which  ...  I  have  worn  on  my  heart.  .  .  .  Please  take 
these  to  her  .  .  .  they  are  my  last.  ..." 

He  kept  moving  his  lips,  but  no  more  words  came.  Then  he 
let  his  great  gray  eyes  linger  on  Roberto,  gazing  at  him  with 
great  tenderness,  and  saying  something  which  his  lips  could  not 
frame,  and  then  these  same  eyes  became  turbid,  veiled,  and  the 
light  died  slowly  out  of  them  until  death  closed  them  entirely. 

hen  there  was  wiped  out  of  his  face  all  expression  of  pain 
and  depression,  and  his  one-time  grave  and  thoughtful  air  re- 
turned to  it.  He  recovered  his  seignorial  aspect,  his  feudal  ap- 
pearance, unchangeable.  He  was  again  like  those  great  lords  of 
old:  carved  in  marble,  who  sleep  their  last  sleep  upon  those 
grand  Gothic  tombs. 

CHAPTER  XXXVII 

THE   INHERITANCE 

ROBERTO  buried  his  friend  in  a  small  village  hidden  away 
among  the  mountains,  and  then  started  on  his  journey  to  Bo- 
gota. He  arrived  there  at  night,  and  after  embracing  his 
mother  he  went,  accompanied  by  Maraton,  to  the  War  Depart- 
ment, with  the  purpose  of  giving  an  account  of  his  share  in  the 
last  campaign,  and  to  request  his  retirement  from  military  serv- 
ice for  the  remainder  of  the  war. 

Passing  in  front  of  the  theater  building,  he  saw  a  sentinel 
there  who  was  half-asleep,  and  at  the  doorway  a  number  of 


Hght 


THE  INHERITANCE  421 

soldiers  stretched  out  on  the  ground,  stacks  of  rifles  leaning 
against  the  wall,  and  from  the  darkness  of  the  stage,  in  the  thick 
atmosphere  of  the  barracks,  there  issued  the  sleepy  voices  of  the 
sentinels. 

"One!     Two!" 

The  image  of  Bellegarde  did  not  leave  Roberto's  mind  for  one 
instant  ...  his  marble  face,  that  gaze  of  infinite  tenderness. 
.  .  .  And  just  then  there  came  to  him  the  memory  of  that  night 
on  which  Werther  was  given,  during  which,  his  sensibility 
stirred  by  the  music,  he  had  allowed  all  those  treasures,  all  the 
fire  of  a  soul  steeped  in  the  passion,  the  longing  for  love,  to  be 
divined.  .  .  .  He  had  remained  to  his  last  hour  enveloped  in 
that  nostalgia  for  death  of  which  they  had  been  speaking  that 
evening. 

No,  not  so.  Bellegarde  had  not  that  craving  for  death  when 
a  life  of  affection,  of  useful  and  ennobling  deeds,  a  life  of  honor 
and  of  fruitful  activity  was  before  him.  It  was  the  country  it- 
self that  had  this  craving,  and  in  scattering  through  it  with  full 
hands  the  creations  of  his  great  intelligence  and  energy,  he  had 
been  himself  torn  along  and  engulfed  in  the  whirlpool.  He 
had  in  the  end  been  worsted,  defeated,  killed  in  his  struggle  with 
barbarism. 

At  the  War  Department  he  met  Alejandro,  who  had  intended 
to  meet  him  that  afternoon  at  the  railroad  station. 

"  I  have  asked  for  your  promotion  to  general's  rank,"  he  said. 

"  Ask  it  for  Maraton  and  for  those  brave  fellows  of  Ronderos 
whom  I  passed  on  the  road  by  chance.  Seriously,  though,  for 
Casanova.  I  have  brought  a  translation  of  that  cipher  letter 
along.  I  fear  that  Cardoso  will  yet  take  his  revenge  on  us. 
To-morrow  Escorpion  is  going  to  arrive  here,  and  I  am  to  see 
him,  in  order  to  get  confirmation  of  my  suspicions." 

"  Have  you  met  Montellano  and  Dolores  yet  ?  " 

"  They  have  gone,  I  think,  to  Honda,  haven't  they?  " 

"  Yes,  Montellano  went  there,  just  as  soon  as  the  Magdalena 
River  was  free,  in  order  to  take  over  the  Sabanilla  Railroad.  It 
is  a  deal  by  which  he  is  clearing  a  matter  of  three  hundred  and 
sixty  thousand  dollars.  He  paid  a  million  in  paper  money  for 
it,  which  means  ten  thousand  dollars,  and  it  is  worth  four  hun- 
dred thousand." 

"  Montellano  is  speculating  on  the  war  and  winning.     We 


422  PAX 

ourselves  are  speculating  on  peace  and  losing.  .  .  .  And  Do- 
lores? " 

"  Dolores,  according  to  trustworthy  information,  will  finally 
marry  Alcon,  unless  you  yourself  will  come  to  the  rescue." 

"And  Dona  Aura?" 

"  She  is  writing  her  novel :  Gold  and  Swords,  or  The  Match- 
less Wife." 

11  Matchless  can  in  her  case  only  mean  without  two  husbands 
at  once." 

"  They  say  that  her  ex-husband  Montellano  is  paying  her  a 
big  pot  of  money,  because  he  foresees  a  great  triumph  for  Car- 
doso." 

Just  then  a  very  elegantly  attired  young  man  whose  face  was 
badly  pockmarked  passed  near  them  in  the  street. 

"  Do  you  recognize  him?  "  asked  Alejandro.  "  It  is  Villa- 
fane.  If  you  only  knew  how  he  came  to  catch  the  disease.  He 
had  just  concluded  a  formidable  contract,  one  he  had  long  been 
fishing  for.  It  was  for  one  hundred  thousand  blankets.  These 
he  had  got  at  next  to  nothing  by  buying  them  of  the  soldiers,  the 
very  same  blankets  the  administration  of  the  War  Department 
had  previously  furnished  them.  .  .  .  But  he  was  obliged  to 
transfer  his  work  now  and  then  to  the  hospitals  .  .  .  and  one 
of  those  blankets  which  had  to  be  examined  and  mended  hap- 
pened to  have  belonged  to  a  soldier  who  had  died  from  small- 
pox. .  .  .  Vidaurre,  after  his  experiences  at  Puerto  Borja,  was 
sent  here  to  Bogota  on  a  passport,  and  is  now  in  town.  His 
1  Social  Reason  '  is  forging  ahead  in  first-class  shape.  They 
are  rapidly  acquiring  a  good-sized  fortune  with  it.  They  are 
devoting  themselves,  at  every  kind  of  percentage,  to  all  the  mo- 
nopolies and  speculations  possible  and  imaginable." 

"  What  noise  is  that  in  the  next  room?  "  asked  Roberto. 

Through  the  door  of  the  adjoining  office  where,  some  time  ago, 
that  famous  luncheon  had  been  given  by  Gacharnah,  issued 
queer  sounds  of  rattling  chains,  whirring  wheels,  and  military 
commands. 

"  Ah,"  answered  Alejandro,  "  it  is  the  General  of  the  bridges 
and  highways." 

"General?" 

"  He  has  been  twice  promoted  during  the  time  of  our  ab- 


THE  INHERITANCE  423 

Both  friends  entered.  Karlonoff,  dressed  up  completely  in  a 
field  uniform:  boots,  spurs,  mantle  with  hood,  Prussian  helmet, 
—  was  putting  a  big  gun  together. 

"  I  am  at  this  precise  moment,"  explained  Karlonoff  affabl> 
and  directing  his  remarks  to  these  two  most  recent  arrivals,  "  at 
this  precise  moment,"  he  repeated,  "  putting  the  finishing 
touches  to  a  number  of  those  long  Yamagata  cannons,  which 
were  ordered  at  my  suggestion,  and  which  I  was  only  able  to 
send  to  the  front  since  that  battle  at  Puerta  Borja.  And  about 
that  battle,  by  the  way,  I'll  have  to  make  some  serious  observa- 
tions to  you,  General.  ...  I  had  taken  this  cannon  apart,  and 
I  was  just  putting  it  together  again,  piece  by  piece." 

After  quite  a  deal  of  bother  and  time,  Karlonoff  managed  to 
finish  this  task,  but  some  pieces  were  left  over,  and  these  lay  on 
the  floor. 

"  And  how  about  these  things?  "  Alejandro  asked,  and  lifted 
them  up  from  the  floor. 

"  These  are  parts  left  over,"  said  Karlonoff,  with  a  gesture 
of  disdain. 

Another  of  these  cannons  was  lugged  up  to  him,  and  he  set 
to  taking  it  to  pieces  in  like  manner,  strewing  the  hundred  or 
so  different  parts  of  it  on  the  floor,  table,  etc.  Then  he  began 
to  select  from  the  whole  heap  certain  fragments  and  managed  to 
reconstruct  the  whole,  excepting,  of  course,  that  there  were  again 
some  of  the  parts  to  spare. 

"  Do  you  see?  "  said  Karlonoff,  not  in  the  least  shaken  in  his 
equanimity.  "  These  parts  are  left  over,  without  any  doubt. 
This  is  undeniably  owing  to  a  blunder  on  the  side  of  the  con- 
structor. .  .  .  The  Japanese  are  in  the  habit  of  making  their 
errors  and  oversights.  But  I  am  going  to  correct  their  errors. 
...  I  mean  to  omit  from  the  whole  number  of  guns  bought  of 
them  all  those  parts  left  over  as  useless  and  a  nuisance.  I  am 
going  at  once  to  present  at  Tokio  my  claim  for  a  patent  of 
invention.  The  new  gun  will  be  called  Karlonoff- Yamagata 
improved." 

An  aide-de-camp  of  the  War  Minister  let  Colonel  Avila  know 
that  his  honor  was  unable  to  receive  him  that  night.  So  Roberto 
left  in  company  of  the  dog,  and  in  crossing  the  antechamber  of 
the  Minister  they  sniffed  a  most  dainty  odor.  The  ministerial 
door  opened  at  this  juncture  to  give  egress  to  Gacharnah,  cheer 


424  PAX 

ful,  fresh,  gardenia  in  the  lapel  of  his  coat.  His  triumphal 
paunch  had  grown  somewhat  in  size.  It  was  now  perfectly 
round  and  had  heroic  proportions. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  friend!  "  he  exclaimed,  taking  hold  of  Ro- 
berto's two  hands.  "  I  expect  you  to-morrow  at  luncheon  time, 
without  fail.  I  shall  have  asparagus  from  Argenteuil,  Brie 
cheese,  and  real  Johannisberg  cabinet  pudding, —  the  real 
thing." 

The  square  in  front  was  deserted,  silent  and  full  of  shadows, 
just  as  it  had  been  that  night  of  the  festival;  the  moon  in  the 
west,  escorted  by  huge  silver-lined  clouds,  and  sailing  on  a  high 
sea  of  luminous  color.  The  electric  globes  along  the  facade  of 
the  Capitol  threw  against  the  black  mantle  of  the  night  ghostly, 
glimmering  reflections,  funereal  lights.  In  rapid  twinklings  the 
electric  lights  deepened  or  lifted  the  shadows,  brought  out 
clearly,  wiped  away,  or  intensified  the  outlines  of  the  stone 
pillars,  the  walls,  the.  broad  flight  of  stairs.  .  .  . 

The  same  stairs  where  he  had  in  better  days  seen  Bellegarde 
ascending,  gallant,  vigorous,  confident  of  himself,  to  sign  the 
Canalization  contract.  ...  Of  the  whole  enterprise,  now,  what 
was  there  left?  It  had  all  disappeared:  the  enormous  amount 
of  machinery,  the  dredges,  the  motors  and  engines,  dikes,  plan- 
tations, buildings  of  every  description,  vessels  .  .  .  and,  at  last, 
the  Count  himself.  Everything  had  suffered  shipwreck,  every- 
thing had  been  consumed,  as  though  swallowed  up  by  the  in- 
fernal regions.  .  .  . 

He  bethought  him  of  Ines.  He  went  to  her  house,  and 
knocked.  Dominated  by  a  profound  emotion,  he  was  in  hopes 
that  they  would  be  at  home. 

"Aunt  Teresa?"  .  .  . 

"Yes?  All  right.  Don't  tell  them.  I  wish  to  surprise 
them." 

Seizing  the  dog  by  the  collar,  to  prevent  his  running  ahead 
and  announcing  his  coming,  he  rapidly  ran  up  the  stairs  until 
he  came  to  the  landing. 

He  had  to  stop  here  and  take  breath,  for  his  heart  beat  pain- 
fully. Was  it  merely  the  emotion  he  felt,  or  was  it  his  com- 
plaint become  more  troublesome  because  of  his  hasty  ascent? 

In  the  drawing-room  he  heard  piano  playing  ...  it  was 
Ines,  and  by  one  of  those  intuitions  which  makes  to  us  known 


THE  INHERITANCE  ,    425 

the  presence  of  a  beloved  being  in  drawing  near  to  it,  he  saw  her 
plainly  with  her  jessamine  pallor,  her  thoughtful  and  affec- 
tionate eyes,  .  .  .  she  was  playing  Beethoven's  fourth  sym- 
phony, the  one  Bellegarde  had  loved  so  well,  .  .  .  that  impas- 
sioned melody,  that  great  song  of  love  in  which  the  master  spoke 
a  language  of  divinest  origin  .  .  .  and  not  alone  that;  she  had 
adopted  the  very  style  of  the  Count,  she  communicated  to  the 
instrument  his  spirit,  his  sentiment.  .  .  .  Roberto  listened,  sur- 
prised and  disturbed,  to  these  notes  that  were  impregnated  with 
deep  emotion,  with  intense  feeling,  with  sweetest  memories. 
Suddenly  Maraton,  infected  by  the  disquietude  and  the  painful 
surprise  of  his  master,  gave  a  little  plaintive  howl. 

Instantly  the  piano  became  silent.  The  wooden  floor  in  the 
room  creaked.  The  prisms  of  the  candelabra  tinkled,  and  a 
light  step  was  heard  approaching. 

"Roberto!  What  a  shock,  what  a  surprise!"  and  with  a 
somewhat  sweeter  inflection :  "  How  happy  you  make  me !  " 

And  she  tendered  him  both  her  hands,  those  long,  slender 
hands,  hands  of  a  perfect  mold,  which  Roberto  had  always  ad- 
mired as  he  would  an  exquisite  work  of  art,  and  she  put  them 
effusively  into  his  own, —  hands  that  had  been  bronzed  by  the 
sun,  and  roughened  by  the  campaign.  They  looked  at  each 
other :  in  her  deep  eyes  Roberto  read  a  story  which  he  anxiously 
endeavored  to  decipher.  That  forehead  of  snowy  white,  bathed 
in  melancholy,  revealed  a  secret  which  might  be  a  refusal  or  a 
hope.  She  closely  observed  her  cousin's  face,  in  which  formerly 
there  had  been  something  fugitive  and  vacillating,  now  full  of 
determination  and  firmness,  and  discovered  in  his  glance  that 
dark  light  of  resolution  which  death  leaves  in  those  who  have 
known  how  to  meet  it  face  to  face. 

They  crossed  the  room  together.  Roberto  sat  down  in  his 
usual  heavy  chair.  They  both  remained  silent.  The  light  of 
a  single  lamp,  veiled  by  a  shade,  cast  the  shadows  of  the  furni- 
ture, vases  and  candelabra  on  one  side,  drawing  arabesques 
upon  the  carpets  and  tapestries.  A  soft  dusk  heightened  the 
effect  of  all  these  rich  and  elegant  things,  rendering  the  imagi- 
nation more  vivid,  inviting  to  confidences. 

"  I  arrived  only  this  evening,  desiring  to  surprise  you." 

Ines  responded  with  an  affectionate  smile. 

With  the  impression  of  comfort,  of  well-being  which   sur- 


426  PAX 

rounded  him,  there  began  to  mingle  in  his  heart  all  the  mem- 
ories of  that  house  that  had  had  for  him  nothing  but  affection, 
refinement  and  cheer.  For  a  moment  he  forgot  the  painful  mis- 
sion which  brought  him  there.  He  would  have  wished  that 
nothing  should  disturb  that  delicious  feeling  of  repose  which 
filled  his  soul,  that  nothing  should  break  the  charm. 

"  It  is  singular,"  said  Ines,  "  how  Maraton  recollects  that 
passage  of  Beethoven  which  saddens  him  so.  The  howl  which 
so  surprised  me,  the  same  as  just  now,  that  time  when  Belle- 
garde  .  .  ." 

Her  voice  began  to  tremble,  that  name  hung  for  a  moment 
on  her  lips,  but  she  quickly  recovered  herself. 

"  When  Bellegarde  played  it  here,  that  first  of  January,  .  .  . 
he  had  only  recently  arrived." 

And  these  words  reminded  Roberto  at  once  of  that  more  re- 
cent scene :  the  horrible  cave,  the  stretcher,  the  corpse  which  was 
recovering  all  its  former  lordly  hauteur,  the  whole  noble  appear- 
ance of  the  Count,  the  dying  glance  ...  the  roses.  He  remem- 
bered his  charge,  and  he  saw  in  its  fulfilment  a  punishment\ 
never  suspected  before.  He  felt  that  that  grave  and  gracious 
figure,  which  attracted  her,  which  now  fascinated  her  with  a  new 
strength,  with  an  irresistible  charm,  was  going  to  interpose  itself 
between  himself  and  his  cousin. 

"  You  must  have  news  of  him,"  she  murmured  timidly. 

The  moment  to  speak  had  now  arrived,  the  moment  to  fulfil 
that  supreme  charge,  to  repeat  to  Ines  that  declaration  of  love 
which  the  Count  had  up  to  then  locked  up  inexorably  within  his 
own  soul,  and  which  escaped  his  lips  only  with  his  life. 

Roberto  divined  that  Ines  would  be  moved  to  the  depths  of 
her  being,  that  this  declaration  would  remove  her  from  him  for 
ever,  that  the  love  of  Bellegarde  was  going  to  dominate  her,  to 
impose  itself  upon  her  with  full  mastery,  with  majesty,  with  the 
sovereignty  of  death  itself. 

Ines  continued  in  a  sonorous  tone,  becoming  more  animated, 
leveling  her  dreamy  eyes  upon  her  cousin : 

"  You  must  know  something  about  him.  For,  Roberto,  as 
soon  as  I  learned  that  Bellegarde  was  Socarraz's  prisoner,  I 
knew  that  you  alone  would  take  upon  yourself  the  task  of  free- 
ing him,  and  ...  I  have  never  ceased  believing  that." 


THE  INHERITANCE  427 

"  Yes,  Ines  ...  I  was  going  to  speak  to  you  about  Belle- 
garde.  I  have  a  message  from  him  for  you." 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  with  ill-concealed  joy.  "  Do  you  know 
when  he  will  come?  " 

Then  Roberto,  in  silence,  took  out  the  portfolio  of  the  Count, 
opened  it,  drew  out  a  few  withered  petals,  handed  them  to  Ines, 
who  read  in  the  attitude  of  her  cousin  the  awful  truth. 

Then  Roberto  began  to  speak,  but  for  a  moment  there  issued 
from  his  throat  but  a  dull  groan,  a  rebellious  sob. 

Ines  rose,  drew  herself  up,  while  an  intense  pallor  spread  over 
her  countenance,  and  in  her  eyes  might  be  read  bitter  grief  and 
lifelong  sorrow,  whispering : 

"Dead?" 

Roberto  silently  gave  free  vent  to  his  tears.  Then,  his  voice 
broken  by  rising  sobs,  he  said: 

"  He  was  so  good,  so  generous  to  me." 

She  remained  standing,  in  a  mute  grief,  solemn,  while  Ro- 
berto, seated  and  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand,  told  her  about 
the  death  of  his  friend.  And  he  repeated  to  Ines,  one  by  one, 
his  last  words.  And  knowing  the  harm  he  thus  did  himself, 
yet  dominated  by  a  sentiment  of  generosity  and  highmindedness, 
he  gave  in  a  lifelike  picture  all  those  details  of  the  sad  scene, 
laid  stress  on  the  intensity  of  Bellegarde's  passion  for  her,  which 
had  been  uppermost  with  him  until  his  last  breath,  saying  that  it 
robbed  death  itself  of  its  sting,  dwelling  on  his  infinite  tender- 
ness, on  that  last  look  which  had  been  illuminated  by  memory  of 
her,  showing  how  her  image  had  been  fixed  in  his  soul  until  the 
very  last  instant  of  his  sad  life. 

Ines  fainted,  and  seemed  about  to  fall,  but  recovered  in- 
stantly. 

"  Permit  me,  Roberto,"  she  then  said  humbly,  "  to  withdraw. 
I  must  tell  my  mother." 

And  she  went  away  with  her  same  light  step.  But  she  turned 
at  the  door,  took  those  withered  petals  carefully  from  the  table, 
and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

He  followed  her  with  his  glances,  and  then  in  imagination 
saw  her  in  her  own  room,  kneeling,  lost  in  sorrow,  her  face 
bathed  in  scalding  tears.  And  those  tears  and  sorrows  were  a 
cruel  martyrdom  for  him.  They  filled  him  with  despair,  with 


428  PAX 

bitter  anger,  they  tortured  him.  A  new  sentiment,  hitherto  un- 
known to  him,  took  hold  of  him, —  the  feeling  of  jealousy,  jeal- 
ousy of  the  dead,  of  a  memory,  of  the  shadow  of  a  friend. 

He  had  always  thought  Ines  cold,  apathetic,  incapable  of  pro- 
found feeling,  intense  passion,  or  strong  love.  And  it  was  at 
that  instant,  when  he  had  seen  evidence  of  those  treasures  of 
affection  she  hid  und^er  an  austere  demeanor,  and  when  he  knew 
the  immense  fund  of  tenderness  that  her  heart  possessed,  that  he 
had  to  lose  her.  Her  silent  smile  had  spoken  plainly.  But  it 
had  not  been  for  him.  Estimating  the  magnitude  of  his  own 
loss,  the  incomparable  value  of  what  he  had  forsaken,  and  long- 
ing to  be  the  one  preferred,  even  if  it  should  cost  his  life,  he 
felt  a  wish  to  be  in  Bellegard's  place  and  to  sleep  his  last  sleep 
in  the  possession  of  her  boundless  affection,  in  a  hidden  nook 
up  in  the  mountains. 

He  heard,  however,  the  short  and  firm  steps  of  Dona  Teresa, 
who  entered  a  moment  later  and  embraced  him  stormily,  only  to 
start  telling  him  about  the  annoyances,  shocks  and  nuisances 
occasioned  by  the  war,  her  vows  made  to  all  the  saints  in 
Heaven,  made  together  with  Dona  Ana  for  his  own  safety  and 
for  his  life,  and  then  to  urge  him  to  tell  her  all  about  what  had 
happened  to  him  during  his  campaigns. 

"  It  seems  to  me  hardly  possible  that  it  should  be  you,  and  no 
other,  that  has  undertaken  and  succeeded  in  so  many  enterprises 
and  performed  so  many  acts  of  incomparable  heroism.  It's 
dark  here,"  she  exclaimed,  interrupting  her  own  flow  of  words, 
and,  after  a  fit  of  laughter  adding:  "  But  Ines  likes  the  dusk, 
though  I  find  that  a  half  light  is  depressing.  As  for  me,  I  am 
fond  of  a  bright  light." 

And  she  touched  the  button  which  communicated  with  the 
central  chandelier;  a  wave  of  strong  white  light  inundated  the 
apartment.  The  shadows  began  to  tremble  and  then  fled  in- 
continently, started  then  on  the  other  side,  and  became  fixed 
there.  The  folds  of  satin,  dead  in  the  shadow,  began  to  bloom; 
the  gilding  on  the  funiture  looked  fresh;  the  light  spread,  then 
was  absorbed  and  found  a  slumbering  place  in  the  soft  rugs. 

And  while  Dona  Teresa,  gay  and  sprightly,  went  on  chatting, 
he,  submitting  to  his  melancholy  thoughts,  set  his  gaze  roaming 
about  this  drawing-room  in  which  the  delicate  hand  of  Ines 
had  created  this  perfect  impression  of  the  Empire  style,  had 


THE  INHERITANCE  429 

succeeded  in  finding  those  gradual  shadings  of  green  which  in 
artistic  variations  gently  declined  or  rose  until  the  brilliant 
coloration  of  the  emerald  was  attained,  and  on  the  other  side  the 
deep  shade  of  dry  leaves  and  darkest  dark  green  of  pools. 

The  wandering  glance  of  Roberto  discovered,  too,  one  single 
petal  forgotten  on  the  table.  It  was  the  same  table  upon  which 
he  had  that  night  so  long  past  left  the  branch  which  she  had 
worn  on  her  bosom.  It  was  something  humble,  sad  and  insig- 
nificant, but  Roberto  imagined  he  could  discover  in  the  fact  the 
atom  rescued  from  the  shipwreck  of  his  love,  a  trace  of  his 
friend,  a  memorial  of  that  last  gaze,  the  full  meaning  of  which, 
however,  had  not  so  far  penetrated  him  sufficiently.  It  was,  he 
thought,  an  expression  of  gratitude,  a  message  for  Ines,  the 
manifestation  of  an  ardent  desire,  the  longing  that  the  vows  of 
Dona  Ana  would  be  accomplished,  after  all. 

A  door  which  was  opened  and  closed,  some  light  steps  in  the 
corridor  which  were  deadened  by  the  thick  carpet,  the  clinking 
of  the  prisms,  the  frou-frou  of  a  dress,  .  .  .  and  Ines  entered 
once  more.  He  saw  her  pallor,  and  on  cheeks  and  eyes  the 
traces  of  tears.  Dona  Teresa  retired,  and  they  were  once  more 
alone. 

Roberto  had  in  front  of  him  an  Ines  never  suspected  or 
known  by  him  before,  an  Ines  transfigured  by  Love,  spiritualized 
by  sufferings.  Like  a  superior  nature  she  was, —  at  the  same 
time  attracting  and  repelling  him,  while  inspiring  him  with  deep 
affection  and  respect,  veneration  and  tenderness  That  instant 
too,  he  became  aware  that  she  had  acquired,  had  inherited  from 
the  Count  his  inscrutable  aspect,  his  expression  of  cool  affabil- 
ity, his  lordly  and  feudal  air.  He  wished  to  talk,  but  he  felt 
bashful,  silly,  and  he  began  to  stammer  incoherent  phrases, 
awkward  words  of  little  bearing,  sentences  that  ended  half 
expressed. 

Then  sheer  desperation  began  to  dominate  him,  and  he  felt 
lost.  With  an  expression  of  deep  pain,  with  meaningless  ges- 
tures and  mien,  he  broke  into  a  long  lamentation,  as  though 
talking  to  himself,  in  which  he  painted  the  complete  failure  of 
his  life, —  a  jumble  in  which  he  had  lost  everything,  fortune, 
love  and  hope.  There  began  to  appear  in  the  face  of  the  girl  an 
expression  of  commiseration,  of  sympathy,  of  vigor;  encouraged 
by  this  and  spurred  on  by  anxiety,  Roberto  was  able  to  dismiss 


430  PAX 

his  air  of  humble  petitioner,  his  halting  words  and  stammering 
phrases;  his  uncertain  expressions  converted  themselves  into  an 
irresistible  and  eloquent  plea.  He  felt  himself  impelled  toward 
Ines  by  the  same  tastes,  by  the  same  conception  of  life,  and  by 
the  same  bonds  of  race  and  family,  by  the  fire  of  the  soul,  that 
strong  shock  of  love  which  he  had  observed  in  herself.  By  a 
strong  effort,  by  his  impetus,  his  pledges,  he  succeeded  in  con- 
quering that  heart,  that  novel  passion,  in  appropriating  to  him- 
self those  infinite  treasures  laid  bare  for  another,  but  whose 
guardianship  remained  solely  with  him. 

For  he  did  not  vacillate,  nor  doubt  the  meaning  of  that  last 
glance  of  the  Count,  who  meant  to  put  into  his  hands  the  hap- 
piness of  Ines,  and  into  his  heart  a  spark  of  that  powerful  and 
steadfast  love  for  whose  cult  he  had  lived  and  which  robbed 
death  of  its  tortures  and  griefs.  It  was  like  the  heritage  of 
felicity  handed  over  by  the  dying  man;  it  was  like  a  legacy  of 
happiness. 

The  Count  had  been  unable  to  give  him  a  fortune,  but  he  had 
left  him  as  a  legacy  something  more  in  consonance  with  the  ele- 
vation of  his  character, —  a  treasure,  a  higher  and  nobler  fate. 

Ines  contemplated  her  cousin  with  curiosity,  with  growing  sur- 
prise. He  also  was  for  her  a  new  man,  a  stranger,  a  foreigner 
who  presented  himself  for  trial.  The  cousin  who  had  always 
treated  her  with  fraternal  affection,  unreliable,  fickle,  voluble, 
had  been  altered  into  a  timid,  stammering  lover  and  wooer,  one 
who  breaks  out  into  desperate  lamentations,  and  next,  by  some 
hidden  virtue,  by  some  miraculous  action,  becomes  a  swain  full 
of  resolution  and  ardor.  The  shadows  of  former  doubt  were 
dissipated,  and  faith  in  the  new  lover  grew.  And  she  also,  in  a 
vague  sentiment  of  sadness  and  hope,  in  a  confusion  of  melan- 
choly and  gratitude,  in  an  undecipherable  mixture  of  bitterness 
and  happiness,  fancied  that  the  love  of  Bellegarde  had  pene- 
trated the  heart  of  Roberto,  and  had  communicated  to  it  a  new 
identity,  a  powerful  will,  an  intense  life. 

And  both,  amazed,  surprised,  saw  a  new  dawn  glow  on  the 
horizon,  the  distances  smiling  and  bathed  in  light.  A  splendor 
of  rebirth  like  that  which  had  driven  away  the  shadows,  had 
made  the  gold  ornaments  flame  brightly,  and  had  made  shine 
with  new  luster  the  old  silken  stuffs.  And  over  all,  drawing 


THE  STORM  431 

near  them,  uniting  them,  floated  the  dying  glance  of  Bellegarde, 
full  of  gentle  tenderness  ...  the  legacy  of  bliss. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THE    STORM 

GENERAL  BORJA  and  Colonel  Avila  were  starting  on  a  trip  to 
the  Gonzalez  Mogollon  Hospital,  a  name  which  had  been  given 
to  the  former  Christian  Workshops  managed  by  the  Sisters  of 
Charity.  After  climbing  a  great  deal  of  narrow  streets  and  de- 
clivities, in  doing  which  Roberto  insisted  on  frequent  halts  be- 
cause of  fatigue,  they  came  back  to  find  it  situated  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill.  There  was  the  white  clock  tower,  behind  a  thick  mass 
of  trees.  But  long  before  they  reached  the  building,  it  an- 
nounced its  presence  by  the  strong  odors  of  iodoform,  chloro- 
form, carbolic  acid,  and  ether  .  .  .  which  to  them  was  equiva- 
lent to  the  smell  of  bodily  suffering  and  final  death. 

"  Ah,  poor  Casanova!  " 

"  This  morning  Agiieros  told  me  that  he  would  have  to  oper- 
ate on  him.  His  arm  will  have  to  go,  since  gangrene  has  set  in," 
remarked  Roberto,  stopping  again,  in  order  to  catch  his  breath. 

"  Did  you  bring  along  that  famous  letter  of  Cardoso's  for  the 
use  of  Escorpion  ?  " 

"  Here  you  have  it." 

Alejandro  was  handed  a  bit  of  paper,  greatly  soiled  and  torn, 
and  full  of  characters  and  numbers  that  seemed  incomprehen- 
sible. At  some  places,  above  the  words  indicating  the  key  to  the 
cipher,  there  were  others  written  by  Roberto.  Those  words  read : 

"  Great  supply  of  ammunition  .  .  .  plain  .  .  .  savannah 
.  .  .  Aguila  .  .  .  decisive  battle  .  .  .  fifteen." 

"  And  what  do  you  make  of  it?  " 

"  More  or  less  this: 

"  '  I  count  on  a  great  supply  of  munition.  I  am  leaving  the 
plain  of  Casanare  via  the  savannah  of  Bogota  for  the  wilderness 
of  Aguila.  I  shall  fight  a  decisive  battle,  for  which  I  reckon  on 
fifteen  thousand  men.' >: 

Alejandro  smiled  doubtfully. 


432  PAX 

"  I  have  been  able  to  decipher  in  part  the  key  to  the  numbers 
and  letters  but  not  the  conventional  words  which  are  interpo- 
lated. I  know  that  my  interpretation  is  venturesome,  even  in 
certain  places  chimerical.  But  we  are  going  to  the  hospital  to 
see  whether  we  shall  succeed  in  making  Socarraz  or  some  other 
guerillero  talk  and  furnish  us  with  some  additional  words,  or 
else  with  some  revelation  that  would  confirm  my  translation,  my 
suspicions  that  the  Revolution  party  means  to  make  a  last  great 
effort, —  if  Cardoso  has  started  from  the  plains  and  whether  he 
really  intends  to  push  on  to  the  wilderness  of  Aguila.  In  order 
to  triumph  Tubalcain  is  counting  on  a  powerful  element,  with  a 
probability  of  success  the  other  chiefs  of  the  Revolutionary 
forces  could  not  reckon  on." 

"  And  which  is  that?  "  asked  Alejandro  in  alarm. 

"  That  he  has  not  Landaburo  with  him." 

"You  believe  that?  " 

"  Let  us  go  and  convince  ourselves,"  answered  Roberto,  as 
they  came  out  on  the  little  square  in  front  of  the  hospital,  where 
the  penetrating  scents  of  powerful  drugs  from  the  hospital  min- 
gled with  the  smoke  of  some  open-air  fires  on  which  cooking  was 
done.  The  Escorpion  had  arrived  that  morning  in  a  very  seri- 
ous condition  ..."  but  something  had  to  be  left  to  chance 
...  to  the  unforeseen,  that  milch  is  certain,"  as  they  were 
told. 

The  sky  began  to  cloud  up,  and  forbidding  shadows  began  to 
fall  on  the  city. 

All  over  the  whole  circumference  of  the  horizon  a  gray  curtain 
was  spreading,  and  this,  increasing  the  falling  darkness,  now 
stretched  its  folds  throughout  the  savannah.  Only  in  the  great 
gap,  where  the  two  mountains  showed  a  huge  opening,  there  re- 
mained a  spot  where  the  azure  of  the  sky  and  the  sunlight  were 
still  in  evidence,  but  this  was  narrowing  visibly,  inch  by  inch. 

This  great  curtain  of  mist  was  spreading  in  an  easterly  direc- 
tion, and  was  even  now  wrapping  the  summits  of  the  cordillera 
in  its  folds,  covering  the  peaks,  the  approaches  to  the  tops,  the 
rocks,  the  paths  in  the  blackish  green  hillsides,  the  fissures  on 
the  mountains,  the  yellow  wastes.  Dense  fogs  now  pushed  on 
farther  and  farther,  passed  on  pushing  other  fog  banks  out  of 
the  way,  attaching  themselves  here  and  there  to  the  protruding 
noses  of  rock  formations,  until  there  remained  suspended  the 


i  THE  STORM  433 

immense  curtain  of  obscurity  and  moisture  from  the  sky,  far  off 
at  the  gap  of  the  mountains,  and  within  and  behind  that  it  was 
clear  that  the  storm  was  brewing. 

With  unceasing  tenacity,  doubling  their  peal,  the  bells  within 
the  small  hospital  tower  were  dinning,  and  the  two  friends  felt 
these  strokes  on  their  hearts  as  though  they  re-echoed  with  the 
fierce  cries  of  pain,  the  low  moans  of  the  wounded  and  dying  on 
the  battlefields. 

One  burial  was  just  over,  and  another  followed  it.  On  an 
open  bier  the  grave  diggers  hastily  placed  the  body,  shoving  it 
out  of  the  hospital  mortuary,  and  dragged  it  quickly  to  the  bier, 
then  crossed  the  little  square  and  the  porch,  which  served  as  a 
lounging  spot  for  convalescents.  The  length  of  suffering  en- 
dured by  patients,  their  handling  people' struck  down  by  death 
so  constantly,  had  quenched  in  these  grave  diggers  the  love  of 
humanity,  compassion  and  all  sensibility.  Without  paying  the 
slightest  regard  to  these  victims  of  the  war,  with  an  indifference 
that  was  brutish,  some  cripples  were  playing  at  fencing  with  the 
muleteers, —  all  amidst  savage  fits  of  laughter.  Others,  who 
were  lingering  on  the  steps  of  the  entrance,  were  throwing  dice, 
and  each  time  a  game  was  decided,  the  rude  laughter  and 
boasting  of  the  winners  were  mingled  with  the  curses  and  blas- 
phemies of  the  losers.  Under  that  menacing  sky,  in  the  half 
light  of  late  afternoon,  it  was  a  most  depressing  scene,  in  which 
ribald  laughter,  blasphemies  and  the  tolling  of  the  passing  bell 
were  all  blended  with  the  strong  exhalations  of  the  hospital  and 
with  the  stifling  smoke  from  the  bonfires.  In  that  nook  the 
sweeping  wave  of  the  war  had  accumulated  all  the  miserable 
remnants,  as  a  tempest  scatters  and  turns  topsy-turvy  all  the 
sorry  fragments  from  a  shipwreck  on  to  a  lonesome  beach. 

They  entered.  The  double  archway  of  the  patio,  formerly  so 
pretty,  now  stood  out  in  dull  gray,  the  distant  storm  lending  it 
some  of  its  shadows.  The  arches  and  walls  were  stained  in 
places  by  the  smoke  and  ashes.  Here  and  there  were  visible 
dark  splotches,  the  mark  of  a  bloody  hand,  drippings  from  a 
waterspout,  which  kept  the  tint  of  the  walls  a  dull  brownish  red, 
as  though  smeared  over  with  coagulated  blood.  Above  the  doors 
alternated  the  letterings  of  the  former  asylum  with  those  which 
Gonzalez  Mogollon  had  had  inscribed  for  present  uses:  "  Em- 


434 

broidery  Office,"  "  Smallpox  Ward,"  "  Artificial  Flowers,"  "  In- 
fectious Fevers,"  "  Weavers'  Room,"  "  Amputations." 

They  crossed  the  inner  court;  in  the  corridors  emaciated  pa- 
tients were  slowly  wandering  through  the  corridors,  wearing 
long  cloaks.  From  between  their  folds  looked  out  wan  faces 
bound  up  in  cloths  or  criss-crossed  by  knife  thrusts.  From  time 
to  time  there  passed  some  Sister  of  Charity  among  these  groups, 
but  she  would  quickly  disappear  in  the  passages,  while  her 
medals  would  tinkle  for  some  brief  while  after  her  disappear- 
ance. From  one  of  the  rooms  there  issued,  sharply  cutting  the 
silence,  a  tenacious,  strident,  unwearying  howl. 

Alejandro  and  Roberto  went  up  the  stone  stairs,  passing  the 
sickrooms,  then  crossed  various  corridors  and  next  descended  a 
dark  little  stair,  the  steps  of  which  creaked  as  they  were  stepped 
upon.  Then  they  heard  a  voice  say  to  them,  as  in  former  times : 

"  Prenez  garde,  il  y  a  dix  marches." 

They  turned  their  heads;  it  was  Sister  Visitacion. 

"  Is  that  you,  Senor  Alejandro?  Senor  Roberto?  After  so 
long  a  time  .  .  .  you  are  here?  " 

And  she  went  down  to  accompany  them. 

"  We  have  come  to  speak  to  some  prisoners,"  said  Roberto. 
"  We  thought  that  we  should  have  to  follow  the  garden  to  find 
them." 

"  The  garden,  .  .  .  the  garden  .  .  ."  the  Sister  said,  inter- 
rupting him,  turning  back  her  eyes  and  joining  her  hands  in  a 
gesture  of  pitiful  regret.  "  The  garden  ...  ah,  that  is  a  dis- 
aster. ...  It  is  a  pity!  Oh,  my  little  miracles!  ...  All  has 
been  destroyed  .  .  .  even  my  famous  Papa  Imperator.  .  .  . 
Only  look!  "  she  wailed,  while  she  led  them  through  the  garden 
walks,  bare,  and  betraying  innumerable  tracks  of  soldiers.  .  .  . 
"Only  look  .  .  .  there  remains  nothing,  nothing!  " 

"  Oh,  but  there  is  something  left,"  jested  Roberto.  "  See 
here!  "  and  he  picked  from  the  ground  some  small  yellowish 
strips  of  paper. 

And  he  deciphered  them  with  difficulty. 

".  .  .  Tri folium  frugiferum.  .  .  .  Spercula  arvensis.  ..." 

In  a  nook  Roberto  heard  a  shrill  burst  of  laughter,  and  he 
approached  with  surprise.  It  was  the  spectral  figure  of  Sister 
San  Bernardo,  as  though  carved  from  a  block  of  ice.  All 
around  her  had  died:  the  balmy  blossoms  in  the  garden,  the 


THE  STORM  435 

thickets  of  greenery,  the  lilies  and  roses,  and  she  alone  remained 
in  the  midst  of  this  disaster;  only  in  the  brain  of  the  poor  de- 
mented Sister  had  the  breath  of  the  great  destroyer  done  no 
mischief. 

They  returned  to  look  for  those  wounded  men  they  wished 
to  question,  and  walked  through  several  more  darkened  and 
cheerless  corridors.  The  fog  that  had  by  now  enwrapped  the 
hills  entirely,  cast  its  cloak  of  darkness  over  the  whole  edifice. 
A  flash  of  lightning  was  followed  instantly  by  a  deafening  thun- 
derclap, and  this  was  repeated  again,  while  the  echo  went  rum- 
bling and  wandering  through  the  whole  range  of  mountains. 
Then  a  shower  of  hail  fell,  and  next  a  squall  of  thick  raindrops, 
which  redoubled  its  fury  up  on  the  roofs,  whipped  the  walls, 
inundated  the  patios,  invaded  the  whole  building  and  in  an 
instant  formed  torrents  of  rain  that  were  running  in  every  direc- 
tion. 

"  Sister,"  queried  Roberto,  "  where  are  those  wounded  from 
the  fight  at  the  Dark  Gap?  " 

They  entered  a  room  the  windows  of  which  had  just  been 
closed  to  shut  out  the  gusts  of  rain  from  the  squall. 

"  There  are  wounded  and  sick  here  from  several  engagements. 
I  believe  that  yonder,"  said  the  Sister,  and  she  pointed  to  the 
left-hand  rows  of  beds,  "  over  in  that  corner,  quite  at  the  farthest 
end  of  the  hall,  there  is  one  from  that  attack  which  Seiior  Ro- 
berto led,  from  what  I  have  understood." 

They  made  their  way  between  the  two  rows  of  beds,  and  got  to 
the  last,  and  there  saw  a  muffled-up  patient,  with  legs  drawn 
up,  and  his  hands  clasped  tightly  in  front  of  him.  He  had 
laid  his  head  on  his  knees,  and  thence  it  rolled  off  every  little 
while.  The  man  was  a  skeleton  loosely  covered  with  a  yellow 
skin,  the  very  image  of  misery,  prostration  and  mortal  indiffer- 
ence. 

"  You  were  at  the  fight  of  the  Dark  Gap?  "  asked  Roberto 
in  a  gentle  voice. 

The  sick  man  did  not  move. 

"  He  has  been  rendered  hard  of  hearing  by  the  quinine,"  sug- 
gested Roberto. 

He  repeated  his  question  three  times,  speaking  louder  and 
louder. 

But  his  silence  continued;  only  the  incessant  howling  from 


436  PAX 

the  adjoining  hall  went  on.  Alejandro  interrogated  the  man  in 
his  turn,  and  shook  him  by  the  shoulder.  The  patient  raised 
his  head,  slowly,  making  a  great  effort  to  do  so,  as  though  it 
were  a  head  of  lead,  turned  his  face,  half  opened  his  eyelids, 
gazed  vaguely  about  him,  and  let  his  head  drop  on  his  knees 
once  more. 

"It  is  Perucho!  "  shouted  Roberto.  "  He  recognizes  me, 
don't  you,  Perucho?  "  and  he  stroked  his  neck  with  his  hand, 
feeling  the  small  bones  standing  out  there. 

"Perucho!  Look,  Perucho!"  shouted  Roberto.  "Do  you 
feel  better?  Can  you  hear  me ?  Don't  you  remember  us?  We 
have  not  seen  you  for  some  time,  not  since  Escorpion  caught  you, 
and  took  you  away  from  our  side  at  the  attack  on  Palmares. 
.  .  .  What  have  they  done  to  you  ?  Listen,  Perucho,  raise  your 
head,  man!  See  here,  there  are  some  reales  for  you.  As  you 
do  not  open  your  hand,  I  am  leaving  these  notes  of  paper 
money  for  you  behind  your  pillows.  Perucho,  do  you  hear  me 
or  not?  .  .  ." 

The  man  made  another  effort,  raised  his  head  once  more, 
opened  his  eyelids,  and  looked  about  him  with  the  same  vacuity, 
let  his  eyes  rest  for  an  instant  on  Alejandro  and  Roberto,  tried 
to  think,  tried  to  remember,  moved  his  lips,  and  let  his  white 
gums  be  seen,  made  a  strong  effort  to  articulate  something,  and 
then,  closing  his  eyes,  heavily  dropped  his  head  at  last. 

"Perucho!"  said  Roberto  in  a  strong  and  commanding 
voice.  "Tell  us!  Is  it  not  true  that  they  went  to  the  wilder- 
ness? What  did  you  hear  Socarraz  say  about  that?  .  .  .  Yes, 
yes,  the  wilderness?  ...  A  great  battle?  ...  Is  it  not  so? 
.  .  .  They  went  to  join  some  other  forces?  .  .  .  They  were  go- 
ing to  receive  munitions,  lots  of  munitions?  Do  you  agree  to 
that?  .  .  .  Now,  come,  remember,  man,  talk,  tell  IK  about  it!  " 

He  lifted  the  head  of  the  young  fellow,  turned  his  face,  made 
him  open  his  eyes,  and  Alejandro  finally  felt  a  deep  compassion 
for  him.  Ah,  those  mouselike  eyes  of  his  in  former  times,  so 
lively  and  shining,  that  had  always  been  talking,  full  of  ro- 
guery and  animation, —  they  were  now  nothing  but  two  yellow 
globules,  heavy  and  listless.  ...  But  Perucho  seemed  to  wake 
up  again,  showed  an  expression  of  fear,  then  he  broke  out  in 
stupid  laughter,  twisted  his  mouth,  and  next,  assembling  his 
scattered  ideas,  and  gathering  all  his  will  power,  he  stammered 


THE  STORM  437 

some  syllables  (once  he  pronounced  "  paramo,"  then  "  parami," 
i.  e.,  wilderness),  with  a  faint  breath,  without  any  inflection  or 
emphasis,  and  then,  exhausted,  his  forehead  covered  with  sticky 
sweat,  he  let  his  head  again  drop  over  his  knees. 

"It  is  useless,  Seiior  Alejandro,"  said  the  Sister;  "thus  he 
passes  his  days  and  nights,  .  .  .  silent,  without  will  power, 
without  saying  a  word.  He  scarcely  takes  a  few  drops  of 
broth,  le  pauvre  enfant." 

"  Stop,"  exclaimed  Alejandro.  "  Bring  us  a  glassful,  or  even 
but  a  mouthful,  of  sherry,  ...  let  us  see  whether  that  won't 
give  his  body  a  bit  of  blood,  and  to  that  empty  head  a  ray  of 
sense,  of  memory  or  thought.  .  .  ." 

And  when  the  Sister  returned,  Roberto  poured  some  drops  of 
the  wine  into  a  large  spoon. 

"  Listen,  Perucho,  open  your  mouth,  really,  you  will  like  it. 
...  It  is  wine  ....  take  it !  " 

The  young  fellow  instinctively  swallowed  two  ladlefuls,  and 
some  moments  afterwards  a  slight  flush  of  red  began  to  color 
his  cheekbones.  He  opened  his  eyes,  in  which  a  remnant  of 
thought  began  to  shine.  He  opened  his  hands,  which  were  dry 
and  yellow,  and  with  his  fingers  he  stupidly  felt  for  his  head. 

"  Are  you  beginning  to  think  ?  Do  you  manage  to  remember 
things?  "  asked  Alejandro  anxiously.  "Perucho,  you  are  still 
the  same  as  before.  Do  you  recall  El  Sauzal,  the  races,  la 
Alondra,  the  campaign?  Don't  you  know  the  time  when  you 
won  the  race  on  Petronio?  " 

He  put  his  head  in  his  hands,  drew  his  legs  back,  and  sat  up, 
while  his  expression  of  insensibility  changed  for  a  moment  to  an 
intelligent  smile.  It  looked  as  though  this  wreck  of  eighteen 
years  of  age  went  back  in  his  thoughts  to  his  younger  days,  as 
there  came  to  him  the  recollection  of  that  gust  of  air  that  played 
with  his  hair  and  swept  him  almost  out  of  the  saddle  when  he 
was  on  the  back  of  Petronio  galloping  among  the  great  mass  of 
people  who  were  shouting  and  huzzahing  to  him  as  the  victor 
in  the  race. 

"  Yes,  yes,  Perucho  .  .  .  long  life  to  him.  .  .  .  Petronio,  the 
track,  the  race  .  .  .  hurrah  for  him!  "  he  yowled. 

He  turned  his  head  toward  Alejandro,  spread  out  his  hands, 
opened  his  lips.  The  sweat  was  rolling  down  his  temples;  he 
closed  his  eyes,  then  he  shriveled  up  again,  and  once  more  let 


438  PAX 

his  head  drop  in  the  same  old  attitude  of  an  Egyptian  mummy. 

"  No  use,"  said  Roberto;  "  let  us  play  our  last  card  now,  .  .  . 
let  us  go  and  see  Socarraz." 

"Escorpion?  Do  you  think  so?"  said  Alejandro,  in  bad 
humor. 

"  Let  us  try." 

Once  more  they  passed  through  the  same  immense  halls  and 
wards,  crowded  with  sick  and  wounded,  who  were  placed  along 
the  floor  in  interminable  rows,  on  soiled  mattresses  filled  with 
straw  or  rush,  or  bare  bricks.  In  these  closely  shut-up  rooms 
the  germs  of  gangrene  were  spread;  open  wounds,  fever  and 
festering  sores  bred  death.  Over  all  floated  the  sickening  odor 
of  disinfectants. 

They  saw  heads  almost  bereft  of  human  semblance,  wrapped 
thickly  in  gauze, —  foreheads  tightly  enclosed  in  bandages. 

Some  of  these  patients,  eyes  and  cheeks  glowing  with  fever, 
with  short  breath  and  respiration  irregular,  were  stirring  their 
arms  and  legs,  unable  to  find  a  comfortable  posture,  pushed  on 
by  desperate  restlessness.  Others  again,  in  a  sleep  of  prostra- 
tion, suffering  from  fantastic  nightmares,  were  murmuring  in- 
coherent phrases,  emitted  pitiful  cries,  complained  of  their 
sufferings.  When  they  awoke,  they  would  cast  affrighted  looks 
all  about  them,  and  then  would  succumb  once  more. 

One  particular  patient,  whose  face  was  purple,  was  stran- 
gling, and  filled  his  ward  with  the  bellowing  sound  of  a  deep 
cough  that  seemed  to  rend  his  chest.  When  he  inhaled  air,  it 
whistled  in  the  caverns  of  his  chest. 

Another,  with  his  mouth  down,  of  a  spectral  pallor,  let  the 
blood  run  into  a  basin  as  it  issued  out  of  his  nose.  He  had  a 
permanent  and  incurable  succession  of  hemorrhages  that  were 
slowly  killing  him. 

In  all  these  emaciated  faces,  withered,  bloodless,  and  of  ashen 
hue,  could  be  read  resignation  to  an  inexorable  fatality,  depres- 
sion without  a  shadow  of  hope,  debility  and  supreme  helpless- 
ness, the  habit  of  suffering  without  hope. 

They  pushed  open  a  closed  lateral  door,  and  found  them- 
selves in  a  small  hall  in  which  the  evaporating  ether  was  pois- 
oning the  atmosphere:  an  odor  that  asphyxiated  and  produced 
fainting  and  vomiting  fits.  Behind,  against  the  walls,  there 
were  rows  of  dishes  with  water,  with  a  brown  liquid,  and  on 


THE  STORM  439 

the  floor  pails,  pitchers  with  boiling  water.  At  the  foot  of  the 
window,  upon  a  table,  were  spread  out  nickel-plated  instru- 
ments of  steel,  wearing  a  sinister  gleam,  twisted  in  form,  cold, 
awe-inspiring,  of  strange  shapes,  some  like  spiders,  like  scor- 
pions, like  poisonous  wild  beasts,  like  instruments  of  torture. 

In  the  center  of  this  room,  naked,  his  face  covered  by  a  silly 
mask,  his  chest  convulsed  and  in  violent  commotion,  shaken  by  a 
short  and  rapid  groaning,  was  Casanova.  And  close  to  this  un- 
conscious body,  to  this  inert  mass,  with  nude  arms,  and  hands 
blood-besmeared,  Doctor  Agiieros  was  amputating  the  gangrened 
arm.  The  surgeon,  surrounded  by  his  adjutants,  was  working 
in  silence,  in  perfect  calm,  priding  himself  on  his  undeniable 
cold-bloodedness,  without  having  lost  his  amiable  mien,  or  his 
disembarrassed  and  elegant  appearance  and  manners,  his  sci- 
entific smile  of  exquisite  courtliness.  From  time  to  time  the 
operating  surgeon,  without  in  the  least  exciting  himself,  issued 
some  brief  order,  or  made  an  observation,  cracked  a  joke,  and 
then  would  once  more  wrap  himself  in  his  former  silence,  inter- 
rupted only  by  the  anguished  snore  of  Casanova.  And  during 
the  operation  itself  the  three  heads,  the  ruddy  face  of  Agiieros, 
and  the  two  black  heads  of  his  assistants,  moving  about  the 
same  radius,  bending  down  over  the  same  central  point,  drew 
nearer  or  went  farther  away,  rose  or  bowed  down,  separated 
and  then  returned  to  join  each  other  once  more. 

Both  friends  left  the  operation  room,  and  crossing  more  and 
still  more  sickchambers,  discovered  at  last  in  a  small  apartment 
the  bed  in  which  Socarraz  lay.  At  the  head  of  it  the  figure  of 
Dr.  Miranda  was  noticeable,  and  at  the  foot,  nursing  the 
wounded  man,  Sister  San  Ligorio,  who,  hearing  the  steps  of  the 
two  arrivals,  raised  her  head.  Fever,  fatigue,  night  vigils  had 
played  havoc  with  her.  The  constant  contemplation  of  afflic- 
tions that  could  not  be  cured,  of  pains  without  relief,  had  served 
only  to  accentuate  her  expression  of  benevolence  and  sweetness. 
Her  blue  eyes  in  those  hollow  sockets  above  the  wan  cheeks  had 
become  larger.  Alejandro,  observing  her  further  physical  de- 
cline, could  not  suppress  a  movement  of  anguish  and  painful 
surprise.  A  smile  then  began  to  show  in  that  pale  countenance, 
and  she  glanced  at  Alejandro  with  those  eyes  of  inexpressible 
charm,  turning  them  to  Heaven.  At  that  moment  she  seemed  to 
have  left  the  earth  and  to  follow  the  intimate  conversation  of  a 


440  PAX 

beloved  being  invisible  to  terrestrial  eyes.  A  sparkle  from  an- 
other world  shone  for  a  moment  from  her  cadaverous  face. 

Socarraz,  lying  on  his  back,  with  arms  flung  wide,  eyes  in- 
flamed and  face  deeply  flushed,  showing  rage  and  spite,  was 
turned  towards  the  window. 

"  Let  nobody  touch  me,"  he  shouted,  brushing  the  Sister 
roughly  aside.  "  What  they  want  is  to  make  a  cripple  so  that 
I  shall  no  longer  be  able  to  fight  against  these  corrupt  scoun- 
drels." 

"  No,  sir,  this  is  only  to  save  you,"  said  an  assistant  surgeon, 
"  but  you  have  hampered  the  amputation  which  ought  to  be 
made.  The  initial  fever  and  the  high  temperature  show  that 
septicemia  has  spread." 

Doctor  Miranda  approached  the  two  friends: 

"  He  is  lost,"  he  told  them  in  a  low  voice.  "  It  is  a  terrible 
case  of  infection,  and  the  fever  has  already  stepped  in.  He 
would  not  allow  them  to  cut  off  his  leg." 

"Really?  The  wound  did  not  seem  to  be  so  grave  at  first. 
.  .  .  We  have  urgent  need  to  talk  with  him." 

"  Do  not  think  of  it,"  answered  Doctor  Miranda,  while  he 
twirled  the  silver  snuff  box  between  his  nimble  fingers.  "  I 
have  to  profit  by  the  last  flicker  of  reason  to  induce  him  to 
confess." 

The  washing  was  done.  The  assistants  withdrew.  The  Sis- 
ter picked  up  the  cloths  and  sponges,  and  as  though  to  force 
herself  to  silence,  she  went  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  sickroom. 

The  shadows  crept  into  the  chamber.  There  was  a  flash  of 
lightning,  followed  by  a  tremendous  clap  of  thunder.  The 
tempest  that  had  moved  on  now  returned. 

Doctor  Miranda  signaled  them  to  withdraw.  He  bent  down 
afresh  to  the  sick  man,  and  murmured  some  words. 

"  I,  repent?  ...  I?  ...  Damnation!  " 

"  See  here,  Escorpion !  "  said  the  priest  in  a  voice  of  authority 
and  affection.  "  You  must  know  that  you  are  going  to  die. 
More  still :  you  have  but  a  few  hours  to  live.  ...  It  is  not  cer- 
tain that  you  do  not  believe.  I  know  you  well.  There  is  a  God 
who  will  chastise  you  if  you  do  not  repent.  But  the  same  God 
wishes  to  pardon  you,  the  same  who  died  for  you.  .  .  .  Gaze  at 
him  on  this  cross.  ..." 

The  dying  man  did  gaze  at  the  crucifix  which  Doctor  Mi- 


THE  STORM  441 

randa  held  out  to  him,  then  wrinkled  his  eyebrows,  turned  his 
face  to  the  window,  and  burst  into  a  great  fit  of  laughter. 

"  No,  this  is  not  God;  it  is  a  piece  of  wood.  Oh,  yes,  yes,  I, 
repent?  Repent  of  what?  ...  I  have  not  done  evil  to  any- 
body. I  have  killed,  of  course,  but  only  in  self-defense.  And 
I  have  not  robbed  any  one  of  a  centavo.  Nothing  of  that  stuff, 
Doctor!  Try  to  catch  somebody  else  with  your  nonsense.  .  .  . 
You  cannot  do  anything  with  me.  .  .  .  Everything  finishes  with 
here  below.  ...  If  there  were  a  God,  it  would  be  a  wicked 
kind  of  God,  who  took  pleasure  in  the  unhappiness  of  his 
creatures,  an  unjust  God,  one  who  gives  to  some  wealth  and 
pleasant  position  in  life,  and  leaves  to  others  misery  and  hard 
labor.  .  .  .  No,  I  won't  have  anything  to  do  with  such  a  God." 

"  You  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  God  ?  "  murmured  the 
priest  in  a  low  voice  which,  however,  soon  became  fiery.  "  But 
that  does  not  depend  on  you.  It  is  not  within  your  will  or 
your  hands,  unhappy  man.  From  the  day  on  which  you  re- 
ceived your  being,  you  were  united  with  Him  by  tight  bonds,  by 
powerful  and  unbreakable  bonds.  Those  bonds  are  such  as  tie 
father  to  son,  creature  to  creator.  No,  He  is  not  the  God  of  the 
Rich,  for  them  he  found  no  other  words  but  words  of  reproach, 
hard  and  severe  words,  anathemas.  He  is  the  God  of  the  small 
and  humble,  of  the  oppressed.  Blessed  are  the  poor,  those  who 
are  hungry  and  thirsty,  those  who  weep,  says  He  who  was  born 
and  who  died  naked,  ennobling  and  exalting  human  misery  with 
His  teachings  and  His  example,  who  underwent  insult  and  in- 
justice, and  who  went  the  noble  and  ample  way  to  prepare  you 
for  the  glory  to  come. 

"  My  son,"  continued  the  good  priest,  "  open  your  heart  to 
love  and  repentance,  break  the  shackles  of  pride,  and  that  same 
God  whom  you  spurn  will  lift  you  to  a  world  where  the  poor 
reign,  where  there  are  neither  great  nor  little,  and  no  greater 
hierarchy  than  that  of  the  humble.  If  you  reject  God  in  this 
last  instance  of  compassion,  and  do  not  listen  to  your  Re- 
deemer and  Father,  you  will  then  see  Him,  at  the  beginning  of 
all  eternity,  face  to  face,  with  His  arms  raised  up,  but  He  will 
then  not  receive  you  lovingly,  but  will  cast  you  into  the  infernal 
regions,  where  envy,  jealousy,  wrath,  which  here  below  have 
already  poisoned  your  existence,  will  also  reign,  and  you  will 
contemplate  from  the  abode  of  the  damned  the  bliss  everlasting 


442  PAX 

of  the  chosen.  .  .  .  Escipion!  Is  it  not  true  that  you  repent, 
that  you  acknowledge  and  love  God  ?  " 

"  No!  "  shouted  Socarraz. 

And  he  sat  down  on  the  bed,  with  his  inflamed  eyes,  with  his 
teeth  bared,  showing  new  strength,  as  though  the  steel  springs 
of  his  body  had  been  renewed.  A  flash  of  lightning  lit  up  the 
room,  and  the  thunder  rolled  through  the  mountains. 

Socarraz  threw  the  bedclothes  on  his  couch  aside.  He  drew 
himself  straight,  displaying  his  crimson  shirt,  and  smiled  in  a 
savage  manner. 

"Ah,  ah,"  he  muttered,  "it  is  the  vanguard  of  Tubalcain! 
Long  life  to  him  ...  the  fifteen  thousand  men  .  .  .  they  are 
carrying  new  rifles,  .  .  .  they  have  cannons,  ...  a  supply  of 
munitions,  boys,  a  big  supply.  .  .  ." 

And  he  waved  his  arms  in  the  air. 

"  Do  you  hear,"  said  Roberto  to  Alejandro,  "  about  the  fifteen 
thousand  men?  Do  you  still  doubt?  " 

And  full  of  anxiety  they  approached  the  bed  of  Socarraz. 

"  No,  my  friends,"  said  Doctor  Miranda,  with  a  solemn  mien. 
"  The  soul,  the  soul,  before  everything  else." 

The  two  retired  again. 

"  Abandon  those  thoughts,"  urged  the  priest,  passing  his  hand 
over  the  hot,  dry  forehead  of  the  sick  man.  "  Hear  me:  if  you 
do  not  love  God,  fear  at  least  His  justice,  eternity,  the  never- 
ending  penance,  hell,  infinite  pain." 

"  All  fairy  tales!  "  shrieked  the  other,  as  though  waking  up. 
"  I  am  not  afraid  of  the  devil."  And  he  collected  himself,  got 
up  on  his  feet,  emitted  a  great  shout,  and  supporting  himself  on 
both  hands,  rose,  with  excruciable  pain,  on  his  wounded  leg. 

Silence  reigned.  The  gusts  of  the  wind  whipped  the  rain 
drops  against  the  window  panes.  Rising  above  the  turmoil  of 
the  squall  there  still  came  from  the  adjoining  room  the  same 
persistent  howling,  which  mingled  with  the  echo  of  the  thunder. 

Doctor  Miranda  lifted  his  hands  to  his  neck,  drew  his  scapu- 
lary  out,  and  put  it  in  the  hand  of  Socarraz. 

"  What  .  .  .  what  is  this?  "  asked  the  dying  man. 

"  It  is  my  scapulary,  friend  .  .  .  leave  it  there.  Nobody 
who  has  it  on  his  bosom  will  be  damned."  Socarraz  seemed  to 
calm  down,  glanced  to  one  side,  and  then  to  the  other,  spread  out 
his  arms.  The  priest  believed  he  was  saved. 


THE  STORM  443 

"Friend!" 

"What  is  it?  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  other,  his  face  expressing 
pleasure,  and  his  voice  growing  more  weak  and  stammering, 
"  ah,  yes,  I  see  them,  I  see  them,  but  the  fog  does  not  let  me 
see  very  plainly.  .  .  .  Damnation!  Cursed  fog.  ...  Is  the 
wilderness  of  Aguila  always  closed  to  them?  But  here  they  are 
coming.  .  .  .  Punctual !  .  .  .  General  Cardoso,  here  I  am  with 
my  people.  Let  me  shake  your  hand!  " 

And  he  stretched  out  his  hand  at  random  to  take  that  of  the 
priest. 

"  Who  is  this  other  one?  That  one  who  is  coming  there  with 
those  other  men?  Through  the  Farallones  Islands.  ...  If 
perhaps  I  do  not  see  them,  do  not  see  them,  then  I  will  remain 
blind.  ...  It  is  the  snowfall.  .  .  .  Now  I  see  him !  .  .  .  Long 
live  General  Landaburo!  .  .  .  Let  us  embrace.  .  .  ." 

And  he  advanced  his  arm  to  put  it  around  the  neck  of  Doctor 
Miranda. 

"  But  how  cold  it  is,  General,  in  this  cursed  wilderness.  .  .  . 
My  feet  are  frozen.  Bring  me  my  cloak,  orderly.  ...  I  feel 
the  cold  already  creeping  up  my  knees.  .  .  .  Now  I  feel  it  as 
high  as  my  belt.  .  .  .  General  Landaburo,  let  us  take  a  stiff 
drink.  .  .  .  Now  I  can  see  nothing  at  all,"  continued  Socarraz, 
passing  his  hand  over  his  eyes.  .  .  .  "  General  Landaburo,  what 
is  this?  Is  it  the  fog  of  the  wilderness?  ...  It  is  an  easy 
thing,  when  on  the  march,  to  take  this  height.  .  .  .  Let  us  go 
for  them  there.  .  .  .  Although  they  seem  to  hide  in  the  fog. 
Damnation!  Higher  up,  boys!  .  .  .  What  a  tremendous  hill 
to  climb!  ...  I  am  strangled,  but  higher  up  .  .  ." 

And  one  could  hear  his  effort  to  breathe.  His  breathing  be- 
came stertorous.  His  throat  rattled. 

"  It  means  death,"  said  Alejandro. 

"  It  is  the  end  of  all,"  added  Roberto,  anxiously.  "  I  feel  as 
if  I  myself  were  suffocating." 

The  Scorpion  had  dropped  on  his  back.  His  arms  lay  flat 
against  his  body.  He  turned  his  face  to  one  side  and  the  other. 
An  attack  of  suffocation  seized  him.  Doctor  Miranda  put  his 
arm  around  his  shoulder,  helped  him  up,  moistened  his  lips, 
and  wiped  his  forehead,  which  was  covered  with  clammy  per- 
spiration. 

"  Escipion,  do  you  hear  me?     Have  you  your  senses  about 


444  PAX 

you  ?  Never  mind  those  delusions.  You  are  not  in  action,  you 
are  here,  on  the  point  of  death.  You  have  but  a  breath  of  life 
left  .  .  .  and  your  eternal  fate  is  to  be  decided." 

Socarraz,  who  had  again  dropped  his  head,  suddenly  raised 
himself,  opened  his  glassy  eyes  which  looked  without  seeing,  and 
in  which  a  frightful  emptiness  was  to  be  noticed.  He  gazed 
all  around  him.  Then  it  seemed  that  he  struggled  to  give  him- 
self account  of  his  situation.  He  extended  his  hand,  which 
Doctor  Miranda  took  and  pressed  affectionately. 

"  Socarraz,  give  me  a  sign  .  .  .  that  will  be  enough.  Do  you 
repent?  " 

"  Who  is  it?  "  asked  Socarraz.  "  Ah,  yes.  It  is  the  priest, 
the  black  bird!  " 

He  drew  some  air  into  his  lungs. 

"  Away  with  you,  vulture!  "  he  then  shouted.  "  There  is  no 
one  dying  here  as  yet." 

With  a  nervous,  repelling  gesture  he  threw  himself  near  the 
edge  of  the  bed,  while  he  muttered  incoherent  phrases. 

The  hurricane  was  now  completely  unchained.  Rain  gusts 
pounded  against  the  walls.  The  strong  wind  whistled  in  the 
chinks  of  the  windows,  shrieked  lugubriously  in  the  corridors  of 
the  building,  roared  and  tore  at  the  trees  in  the  garden  outside, 
and  shook  the  doors  with  a  frightful  noise.  A  livid  light 
suddenly  filled  the  dormitory,  and  painted  the  faces  of  the  pa- 
tients a  greenish  hue.  The  latter  crawled  out  of  their  beds, 
and  with  cries  of  fear  threw  themselves  at  the  foot  of  the  cru- 
cifix. A  terrific  flash  of  lightning  shook  the  whole  edifice  to 
its  foundations,  with  a  tearing  sound  as  though  everything  had 
been  crushed  to  powder. 

Socarraz  raised  himself  once  more,  took  breath,  with  a  strange 
guttural  noise,  and  before  collapsing  forever,  he  shouted  with 
unexpected  vigor: 

"How  well  the  cannons  work!  .  .  .  They  are  already  re- 
treating !  .  .  .  Let  us  take  them  prisoner !  .  .  .  We  win  the  bat- 
tle! ...  Long  live  the  Revolution!  .  .  .  Cursed  be  my  soul!  " 


UNDER  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  CROSS       445 
CHAPTER  XXXIX 

UNDER    THE    SHADOW   OF    THE   CROSS 

MAKING  use  of  old  maps  and  plans,  of  geological  samples  and 
verbal  information,  the  General  of  bridges  and  highways  made 
out  a  detailed  plan  of  the  region  which,  according  to  Roberto, 
was  menaced  by  Cardoso,  without  there  being  missing  a  single 
stone,  nor  even  a  tree.  But  in  these  said  plans  there  was  no 
mention  whatever  of  either  that  famous  gap  in  the  mountains 
nor  of  the  wilderness  of  Aguila.  But  then,  he  said,  there  was 
no  danger  threatening  from  that  side.  A  few  words  in  cipher 
and  the  delirious  drivelings  of  a  dying  man  were  not  sufficient 
reason  for  preparing  a  difficult  campaign,  nor  for  summoning 
the  different  divisions  of  the  army  which  for  the  most  part  were 
at  the  coast  or  in  the  Tolima  plains.  But,  just  when  nobody 
expected  it  in  the  least,  news  came  to  Bogota  that  Cardoso  was 
marching  rapidly  with  a  considerable  army  towards  the  capital, 
coming  by  way  of  the  wilderness. 

General  Ronderos,  only  partially  recovered  from  his  physical 
ailments,  started  in  great  haste  with  the  only  forces  there  were  in 
Bogota,  met  Cardoso  in  the  wilderness,  at  a  point  called  Pan 
de  Azucar  (Sugar  Loaf),  one  day's  march  from  the  Capital, 
defeated  him  and  forced  him  to  withdraw  to  the  Wilderness  of 
Aguila,  whence  he  had  come.  But  once  there,  in  the  formidable 
positions  of  Cabrera,  and  by  way  of  the  Gap  of  Aguila  maintain- 
ing his  communications  with  the  prairie  country,  from  which  he 
constantly  drew  his  required  provisions,  Cardoso  fortified  him- 
self, beating  back  the  attacks  of  the  brave  soldiers  of  Ronderos. 

The  panic  and  the  disheartenment  of  the  Government  and  its 
friends  which  set  in  with  the  appearance  of  Cardoso  and  with 
the  subsequent  inability  of  Ronderos'  troops  to  take  the  enemy 
trenches,  were  extraordinary.  Dona  Aura  ordered  a  banquet  to 
be  made  ready  at  the  Bicontinental  in  order  to  receive  her  tri- 
umphant husband  in  worthy  fashion.  Soon  there  was  talk  of 
commissioners  of  peace,  of  compromises,  of  politico-military 
conventions.  The  big  voice  of  Gonzalez  Mogollon  made  itself 
heard  those  days  with  much  bustle  and  deafening  tenacity. 
And  he  kept  up  a  ceaseless  journey  between  the  government 


446  PAX 

palace  and  the  house  of  Dona  Aura  by  coach  and  auto,  Gonzalez 
conferring  with  her  as  to  the  bases  of  understanding  for  a  gen- 
eral peace  by  agreement,  which  the  spouse  of  the  poetess  would 
have  to  confirm  later.  Alcon  had  a  moment  of  supreme  happi- 
ness. For  he  considered  himself  the  arbiter  of  the  situation, 
and  he  believed  he  would  be  able  to  flaunt  the  striped  ribbon 
across  his  chest  by  attending  skilfully  to  these  arrangements, 
that  "  revaluation  of  ideals "  of  which  Landaburo  had  been 
speaking. 

But  contrary  opinions  prevailed,  overcoming  "  good  "  feel- 
ing; bursts  of  resolution  and  energy  succeeded  fear.  The  immi- 
nence of  the  peril  brought  out  resources,  raised  armies,  fired 
enthusiasms,  and  restored  the  weakened  will  power  of  the  friends 
of  the  Government.  Alejandro,  who  retained  his  post  as  chief 
of  staff  of  the  army  of  Ronderos,  stayed  on  in  Bogota  to  hasten 
the  departure  of  the  various  divisions.  One  morning,  with  a 
steady  rain  pouring  down,  he  was  watching  the  embarkation  of 
those  troops  with  whom  he  was  to  start  himself.  The  Grena- 
diers, with  their  immense  brigade  and  their  long  Yamagata-100 
guns,  arrived,  ready  to  depart.  The  elite  troop  silently  occu- 
pied their  train  in  perfect  order.  Producing  a  tremendous  echo 
within  the  surrounding  tall  edifices,  the  drums  of  the  Milan  Gil 
battalion,  hoarse  and  out  of  tune  from  the  constant  rainy 
weather,  resounded  nevertheless  with  great  force.  The  battalion 
owed  its  new  name  to  the  mysterious  disappearance  of  its  former 
commander.  The  flag,  which  was  thoroughly  soaked  with 
rain,  now  showed  near  its  point  two  black  ribbons  that  fell 
mournfully  down  the  length  of  the  staff.  With  music,  shout- 
ing and  a  cheerful  noise  the  Palmares  division  next  presented 
itself,  under  the  lead  of  its  second  commander,  because  the  first 
one,  Casanova,  was  still  at  the  hospital.  But  suddenly  a  de- 
tachment of  invalids,  emaciated  and  pale,  came  marching  out  of 
the  mouth  of  a  side  street.  There  came  Casanova,  with  his 
sword  carried  in  his  left  hand.  The  right  sleeve,  proclaiming 
the  loss  of  his  limb,  hung  down  his  thin  body. 

"  General,"  he  said,  addressing  himself  to  Alejandro,  and  in  a 
voice  still  rather  feeble,  "  these  boys  will  not  fight  without  me. 
Now  that,  thanks  to  you,  they  have  made  me  a  general,  I  have  to 
show  my  little  stars." 

Bells  are  ringing.     The  first  stroke  is  for  attention.     The 


UNDER  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  CROSS       447 

engine  whistles  again  and  again.  Then,  with  creaking  of 
chains,  the  train  begins  to  run  slowly.  The  raindrops  slapped 
against  the  panes.  The  train  bell  gave  forth  melancholy  notes 
that  were  scattered  throughout  the  deserted  country  side. 

"  Do  you  hear?  "  said  Roberto.  "  It  is  the  funeral  knell  toll- 
ing for  all  those  unfortunates  who  are  carried  off  to  the  slaugh- 
ter." 

A  short  distance  after  their  start  they  saw  on  one  side  the 
race-course.  The  center  of  the  wide  space  was  covered  with 
wild  grass  and  weeds;  the  track  itself  had  sunk,  the  grandstand 
and  boxes  had  become  ruins.  When  they  had  passed  on  a 
little  farther  Roberto  made  out,  in  the  thick,  milky  air,  a  country 
house  by  the  way, —  that  of  Bellegarde. 

"  It  is  a  year  ago  that  the  unfortunate  man  was  talking  to  us, 
at  Ubaque,  of  his  impending  journey.  He  did  not  know  then 
what  journey  he  was  soon  to  start  on." 

He.re  and  there,  along  the  route,  they  noticed  on  a  number  of 
houses  the  English  flag  or  the  Italian  flag,  and  on  the  walls 
flaming  inscriptions :  "  English  Property,  Gacharnah  Broth- 
ers " — "  Italian  Property,  Fratelli  Malatesta." 

"  Rhadames  and  the  commission  merchant,"  said  Roberto, 
"  are  successfully  cultivating  the  branch  of  foreign  reclamations. 
Each  chicken  taken  from  those  foreign  pieces  of  property  for  the 
use  of  the  army,  they  make  the  Government  pay  for  as  though 
it  were  the  Phoenix  itself.  And  when  the  honied  voice  of  the 
reclamationists  is  not  heeded  at  once,  their  guns  begin  to  speak." 

They  had  to  wait  for  detachments  of  recently  enrolled  recruits. 
These  came  accompanied  by  their  wives,  sisters  and  mothers. 
The  poor  fellows  had  to  march  between  a  double  row  of  soldiers. 
They  all  brought  food  along  in  large  baskets,  especially  fowl  of 
various  kinds.  All  their  faces  revealed  deep  distress,  resigna- 
tion or  else  a  brutish  indifference,  the  air  of  him  who  is  accus- 
tomed to  suffer,  and  submits  without  resistance  to  the  inevitable. 

From  amongst  the  women  who  remained  in  the  road  there 
came  sobs,  and  half  suppressed  moans.  After  the  recruits  had 
entered  the  train  and  the  engine  began  to  move,  there  was  a  gen- 
eral outburst  of  plaints  and  tears.  Some  distance  away  Roberto, 
full  of  compassion  for  these  poor  people,  heard  the  weeping  of 
an  old  woman,  who  had  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  road, 
erect,  grave,  allowing  tears  to  run  down  all  over  her  fretted 


448  PAX 

cheeks.  The  bell,  as  the  train  pulled  out  of  the  station,  went  on 
ringing  steadily,  and  it  continued  as  long  as  the  road  lay  through 
the  plains.  But  at  last  the  train  set  up  a  piercing  whistling, 
the  brakes  creaked,  and  the  engine  stopped.  The  trumpets 
sounded,  and  the  troops  aboard  got  out. 

The  rain  ceased,  but  the  marching  path  was  thoroughly 
soaked,  and  the  soldiers  marched  along  in  mire.  From  afar 
came  the  thundering  noise  of  the  torrents  rushing  along  through 
the  bamboo  jungles  on  the  hills. 

The  Sisters  of  Charity  marched  along,  accompanied  by  Doc- 
tor Miranda.  Seeing  Sister  San  Ligorio  among  them,  Alejan- 
dro was  convinced  that  only  a  miracle  of  will  power,  a  miracle 
of  divine  love,  could  enable  her  to  remain,  on  her  feet  and  resist 
all  the  privations  and  hardships  of  a  campaign  like  this:  such 
were  her  pallor  and  physical  exhaustion.  She  seemed  a  spirit 
already  freed  from  its  mortal  coil.  Alejandro  bowed  his  head, 
filled  with  respect  and  veneration.  And  she  directed  another 
of  those  strange  glances  at  him, —  grave  and  affectionkte  at  the 
same  time, —  by  which  she  seemed  to  invite  him  to  listen  to  the 
secret  voice  that  called  in  his  heart,  to  devote  his  life  to  peni- 
tence, to  take  the  road  of  the  cross  marked  by  herself, —  the 
road  to  Heaven. 

On  a  horse  covered  with  foam  and  utterly  exhausted,  his 
flanks  rising  and  falling  from  exertion,  an  adjutant  of  General 
Ronderos  who  came  direct  from  his  camp,  presented  himself. 

In  Pan  de  Azucar  there  had  been  most  determined  fighting. 
Cardoso,  dislodged  from  one  place,  was  defending  his  new 
quarters  palm  tree  by  palm  tree,  and  had  erected  fortifications 
in  La  Cabrera,  where  he  was  enlarging  his  army  with  those 
guerilleros  whose  bands  had  been  defeated  before  and  who  were 
now  flocking  to  him.  But  there  were  also  daily  partizans  of 
Cardoso  arriving  from  Bogota.  After  several  times  being 
beaten  back  by  Cardoso's  men  entrenched  in  strong  positions, 
Ronderos  did  not  intend  to  make  new  attacks  until  he  should 
have  received  sufficient  reenforcements  from  Bogota.  His  army 
lacked  everything:  muntions,  food,  and  shelter.  Many  per- 
ished from  hunger  and  cold.  The  wilderness  was  infested  by 
guerrilla  forces  who  interfered  greatly  with  communications. 
That  night,  therefore,  the  new  reenforcements  were  to  camp  at 
Pan  de  Azucar,  and  the  day  following  the  Grenadiers  were  to 


UNDER  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  CROSS       449 

proceed  thither  in  aid  of  Ronderos,  since  their  guns  were  abso- 
lutely needed  for  the  destruction  of  the  mud  walls  and  houses 
at  La  Cabrera.  Roberto  was  to  stay  in  Pan  de  Azucar,  in  order 
to  direct  and  guard  the  reenforcements,  the  munition  trains  and 
the  provisions,  and  also  to  cover  the  march  of  the  rearguard. 

"  The  General  has  also  charged  me,"  concluded  the  adjutant, 
"  to  show  you  this  letter,  taken  from  a  postal  messenger  of  the 
enemy  who  fell  into  our  hands.  The  letter  is  from  General 
Landaburo  to  his  friend  and  confidant  Vidaurre." 

The  letter  read  as  follows: 

"  Nobody  can  attribute  any  of  the  disasters  that  the  revolutionary 
party  has  met  with  to  me.  They  are  due  to  the  criminal  inactivity,  the 
deep  enviousness,  and  the  low  ambition  of  Polanco,  to  the  rapacity  of 
Socarraz,  the  imbecility  of  Neron  Jaspe,  the  cowardice  of  Largacha,  to 
the  stupidity  and  laziness  of  Nichols;  the  latter  being,  however,  nothing 
compared  to  those  of  Tubalcain  Cardoso,  he  having  declared  himself 
chief  of  the  Revaluation  party  and  director  of  the  war.  He  is  ill-fitted 
for  that  post,  who  lives  shivering  in  those  wildernesses  day  and  night, 
who  has  no  constancy  for  anything  except  his  plunder,  and  who  for  that 
sole  reason  will  be  up  watching  all  night.  He  is  a  cipher,  spelling  that 
word  with  a  big  C,  unable  to  plan  anything,  and  incapable  of  executing 
it  when  conceived.  He  is  chaste  and  pure,  that  one  also,  fond  of  low- 
lived singers  and  of  smutty  stories.  His  greatest  vice,  however,  is  his 
habit  of  taking  snuff,  which  is  a  vice  of  the  Jesuits.  To  his  craving  for 
rule  and  his  incapacity  the  defeat  of  La  Chorrera  was  due;  but  that  de- 
feat was  an  advantage  to  the  country,  because  success  in  that  battle 
would  have  meant  the  presidency  of  Cardoso,  which  would  have  been 
something  like  the  government  and  presidency  of  Ravachol  in  France. 

"  How  much  more  preferable  are  the  vicious  chiefs,  when  they  know 
how  to  win  victories,  to  those  masquerade-heroes  who  play  the  ascetics. 
Many  believe  —  and  I  belong  to  their  number  —  that  the  failure  of  the 
Revaluation  movement  is  not  so  much  due  to  the  inability  of  its  chiefs, 
but  rather  to  their  excessive  virtues.  Our  Bogota  friends  must  know 
what  type  of  man  this  Cardoso  is.  Many  compare  him  to  Bazaine.  They 
should  know,  too,  the  shout  of  my  soldiers  when,  gallant  and  proud,  I 
stride  in  front  of  them  in  my  white  uniform,  on  my  war  horse.  A  wave 
of  enthusiasm  runs 'through  them  at  such  a  moment.  For  one  I  have  a 
smile,  for  another  a  word  of  encouragement,  and  for  them  all  the  prestige 
of  glory  and  valor.  And  then  the  sublime  shout  will  rend  the  air: 
'  Long  life  to  our  leader  Landaburo !  .  .  .  Look  at  this,  my  brave  boys ! 
.  .  .  Where  our  general  puts  his  foot  nobody  else  can  find  room !  '  But 
nothing  of  all  this  gives  me  pleasure.  In  fact,  I  am  indifferent  to  it. 
Worse,  it  humiliates  me,  it  outrages  me,  it  ages  me,  the  idea,  I  mean, 
that  a  Tubalcain  Cardoso  should  be  preferred  to  me.  And  it  is  for  that 
reason  that  I  consider  myself  expelled  and  proscribed  by  the  Revalua- 
tion Party,  pursued  by  invidious  suspicions  and  calumnies.  Of  all  parties 


450  PAX 

either  known  or  yet  to  be  known  it  is  the  one  harboring  the  lowest  kinds 
of  passions,  the  most  ignoble  instincts,  the  most  nefarious  and  the  most 
villainous  purposes.  I  turn  my  back  on  it  and  abjure  herewith  a  cause 
which  rewards  its  heroes  and  defenders  as  this  one  does. 

"  Indeed,  I  am  thinking  of  establishing  myself  in  foreign  parts  and 
founding  a  commission  house.  You  who  have  such  a  talent  for  business, 
will  be  glad  to  get  me  a  goodly  number  of  customers.  I  trust  it  will  be 
one  from  the  ranks  of  the  Constitutionalists,  because  customers  from  the 
ranks  of  the  Revaluation  party  do  not  inspire  me  with  confidence. 

"  The  house  of  Gacharnah  Brothers  must  have  an  account  in  my  favor, 
the  remainder  of  the  last  coffee  they  exported,  which  may  be  paid  in 
gold,  and  one  from  the  bill  of  exchange  which  was  bought  at  Calamar. 
As  the  remittances,  the  letters  and  the  account  are  in  your  own  name,  it 
is  necessary  that  you  let  friend  Gacharnah  know  discreetly  about  all  this, 
so  he  will  not  forget  it. 

"  Since  my  exile  I  see  the  triumph  of  my  ideas  everywhere,  because 
ideas  do  not  die,  do  not  change,  do  not  spend  themselves,  and  do  not 
grow  old;  in  the  end  they  always  conquer.  Against  them  bullets  do  not 
prevail,  nor  chains  or  instruments  of  torture,  nor  jails.  That  which  mar- 
tyrdom could  not  achieve,  has  been  obtained  by  indifference,  a  smile, 
disdain,  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  old  boy. 

"  I  am  speaking,  for  instance,  of  my  ideas  of  peace,  because  the  use  of 
arms,  of  violence,  of  any  illegal  means  whatsoever,  is  the  language  and 
the  clearest  sign  of  our  barbarism,  of  unreason  and  of  injustice. 

"  War  is  a  crime !  And  to  those  who  might  tell  me  that  these  have  not 
always  been  my  convictions  I  shall  answer,  amongst  other  things,  by 
means  of  my  speeches  at  El  Consuelo  and  at  the  Bicontinental  which 
represent  my  definite  and  free  confession  of  faith  as  my  patriotic  con- 
science dictates  it. 

"  To  these  eloquent  words  I  want  to  add  to-day  those  which  follow, 
in  order  to  support  with  my  authority  as  a  revolutionist  those  of  another 
American  equally  famous  as  a  man  of  peace.  '  We  have  lost  the  way,' 
said  George  Washington.  We  must  suppose  that  the  convolutions  and 
the  silences  of  privileged  brains,  of  the  highest  type  of  intellect,  of  the 
great  characters  who  have  ever  arrived  at  the  summit  of  their  ideals,  will 
never  be  understood  by  mere  negation,  dulness  and  scheming.  From  that 
greatest  height,  therefore,  I  return  as  the  enemy  of  all  slaughter,  of  all 
revolution,  and  the  friend  and  apostle  of  peace  and  evolution. 

"  After  all,  I  have  abjured  but  one  single  letter :  R. 

"  F.  LANDABURO." 

"Praised  be  God!  "  exclaimed  Roberto.  "We  have  in  the 
person  of  friend  Landaburo  the  scatterer  of  armies,  the  most 
powerful  ally.  But  it  is  necessary  to  get  him  moving.  .  .  .  Let 
us  see  ...  Casanova  ...  a  man  of  intelligence,  a  postal  mes- 
senger .  .  .  send  this  autograph  letter  to  Cardoso  .  .  .  here  we 
can  keep  a  copy  of  it." 


UNDER  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  CROSS       451 

"  It  would  be  better  to  consider  this  a  little  ...  to  fore- 
see .  .  ." 

"  No,  no!  We  will  foresee  nothing.  You  know  that  I  pro- 
fess the  religion  of  chance.  It  is  needful  to  let  things  come  as 
they  will.  .  .  .  Only  God  knows  what  will  yet  happen !  Let  us 
go  on!  Onwards!  .  .  .  Let  us  only  hurry  on  through  the  re- 
cesses of  the  wilderness." 

They  mounted  their  horses,  placed  advance  posts,  and  started 
on  their  road  in  silence.  The  trot  of  the  horses  sounded  hollow, 
and  there  was  a  depressing  monotony  among  the  pools  of  stag- 
nant water  and  the  muddy  roads. 

"  How  are  those  paths  of  the  wilderness  really  going  to  be?  " 
suggested  Doctor  Miranda,  riding  at  Alejandro's  side.  Alejan- 
dro was  given  up  to  his  thoughts,  still  under  the  profound  and 
wholesome  emotion  which  Sister  San  Ligorio  had  kindled  in  his 
soul. 

They  followed  the  vehicles  in  a  silence  which  was  broken  only 
by  the  clanking  of  the  harness  and  the  champing  of  the  horses, 
and  they  advanced  at  a  great  rate,  although  the  implacable  rain 
whipped  their  faces  and  wetted  their  clothes  thoroughly.  On 
one  side  there  were  the  fogs  of  the  mountains,  on  the  other  the 
prairie  country,  which  lay  under  a  mist  of  uniform  gray. 
Within  the  circle  which  the  horizon  described,  there  were  visible 
blackish  masses  of  trees,  or  else  the  white  outlines  of  some  hut 
or  house.  Along  the  steep  paths  trickled  thin  rills  of  water 
downwards;  the  soil  looked  black,  the  rocks,  the  gullies  shining 
with  rain.  Some  cattle,  grazing  on  the  moist  grassy  slope, 
showed  fear  on  the  approach  of  the  riders.  The  alder  trees  let 
their  branches  droop,  like  moistened  plumage.  For  short  inter- 
vals the  rain  ceased,  and  then  the  atmosphere  became  bright  and 
clear;  the  colors  of  everything  stood  out  brilliantly,  and  the  foli- 
age showed  a  vivid  green;  the  hillsides  brightened  too,  until  a 
new  shower  poured  down,  and  then  the  whole  scene  changed 
once  more,  and  the  air  turned  thick  and  murky.  In  the  center 
of  the  wide  plain  the  smoke  of  one  small  hut  rose,  tried  to  rise 
straight,  then  flattened  out  and  lost  itself  in  the  dusky  surround- 
ings. 

"  Roberto,"  said  Alejandro  at  last,  breaking  in  on  the  long 
silence,  "  you  vainly  attempt  to  hide  from  me  your  annoyance 
and  your  bitter  temper.  You  have  reason  to  feel  that  way,  I 


452  PAX 

admit.  What  more  do  you  want?  I  have  not  forgotten  that 
you  were  in  Curasao,  that  you  have  faced  the  dangers  of  the 
sea,  tempests  and  great  fires.  You  have  covered  a  thousand 
leagues,  and  have  not  yet  come  to  the  end  of  your  journey.  It 
is  as  though  you  were  borne  along  by  an  inexorable  fatality. 
Let  us  submit,  without  grumbling,  to  our  fate.  We  were  born 
for  peace  and  for  the  finer  appreciation  of  intelligence.  Our 
real  destiny,  as  poor  Bellegarde  used  to  say,  should  have  been 
art.  And  yet  we  are  forced  to  live  in  constant  sight  of  vio- 
lence, midst  filth  and  mud,  amidst  the  brutalities  of  war.  We 
are,  in  a  word,  Colombians.  I  also  know,"  he  went  on,  alter- 
ing his  tone,  "  not  through  you,  from  the  laughter  of  Aunt  Te- 
resa and  the  tears  of  Aunt  Ana,  that  the  great  desire  of  both  of 
them  is  going  at  last  to  be  fulfilled.  And  despite  your  bad 
fortune  you  are  going  to  be  happy  yet,  because  our  happiness  is 
not  bound  up  in  this  fortune.  But  I  am  waiting  for  our  speedy 
return,  and  then  .  .  .  you  will  grant  me  a  nook  in  your  house." 

Along  the  whole  length  of  the  road,  as  far  as  eye  could  reach, 
the  marching  battalions  could  be  made  out  in  the  murky  atmos- 
phere. The  advance  guard  was  already  gasping  up  the  steep 
rise  of  ground,  and  could  be  seen  on  its  tortuous  path,  winding 
upwards  in  a  snake-like  coil. 

The  priest  and  the  two  friends  were  making  their  way  along 
the  right-hand  side,  now  climbing  up  a  thorny  crest,  and  their 
horses  found  difficulty  in  their  upward  toil  over  the  chalky  soil. 
The  strong  wind  blowing  down  from  the  range,  lashed  and  tore 
at  the  manes  of  the  horses  and  whistled  in  the  ears  of  the  trav- 
elers. Then  again  the  downpour  ceased,  and  they  left  the  path 
and  began  to  penetrate  into  an  immensity  of  huge  rocks,  which 
rose  like  so  many  skeletons.  Alejandro  threw  his  glance  to- 
ward the  summit,  searching  something,  and  saw  far  in  advance, 
between  the  marching  battalions,  appearing  and  disappearing 
in  the  turns  of  the  road,  the  white  hoods  of  the  Sisters  of 
Charity. 

"  They  are  the  ermine,"  said  Doctor  Miranda,  divining  Ale- 
jandro's reflections,  "  which  no  muddy  roads,  of  which  you 
spoke  but  a  moment  ago,  can  soil, —  the  white  relief  amidst  the 
shadows,  gentleness  and  sweetness  amidst  utmost  brutality,  gen- 
erosity amidst  egotism, —  the  holocaust,  the  sacrifice,  asking  par- 
don for  so  much  blood  poured  out  needlessly." 


UNDER  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  CROSS       453 

They  crossed  a  break  in  the  mountain  path,  and  began  to 
climb  down  between  rocks  over  a  deep  path,  the  bed  of  a  tor- 
rent. Then  they  entered  a  different  territory:  gullies  without 
any  vegetation  whatever,  in  which  the  stone  showed  ruddy 
tints, —  slopes  which  seemed  like  backs  bared  to  the  storm. 

The  horses  had  to  descend  long,  slippery  and  difficult  paths. 
When  they  finally  reached  the  bottom,  they  had  to  begin  the 
climb  up  another  hill. 

After  a  rough  ascent  they  found  themselves  on  the  top  of  a 
brow  covered  with  large  flat  stones,  through  which  they  made 
their  way  along  a  twisted  narrow  path,  between  brambles  and 
thorns.  The  noise  of  an  invisible  torrent  accompanied  them, 
and  the  noise  grew  as  they  went  down  farther,  owing  to  the 
rains.  Now  the  noise  increases,  and  a  dark  whirlpool  comes  in 
sight.  There  is  an  immense  bowl  of  stone,  and  out  of  it  the 
water  is  escaping  and  inundating  the  path,  whence  it  again 
escapes  in  cascades,  only  to  pour  down  into  a  profound  cavern. 
A  group  of  ferns  rears  its  trembling  leaves  above  it  all. 

They  were  still  ascending.  Then  they  turned  into  a  dark 
and  narrow  path  densely  covered  with  thistles,  tall  reeds  and 
ferns,  the  spongy  soil  below  grew  thorns  and  blackberry  bushes. 
Onwards  they  went  between  bushes  misshapen  and  half  with- 
ered, their  branches  covered  with  gray  mosses  and  silvery  scales, 
from  which  water  was  dripping  from  the  recent  rain.  This 
vegetation,  which  the  glacial  winds  never  allowed  to  flourish, 
struggling  along  on  an  arid  and  sapless  soil,  was  hostile  to  man, 
and  was  covered  with  thorns,  sharp  spines,  and  needle-like 
hooks. 

Thus  they  arrived  on  a  high  crest.  The  small  summit  was 
cleft  and  scarcely  allowed  a  foothold.  They  turned  their  horses, 
and  with  emotion  saw  far  down  the  boundless  prairie,  a  huge 
level  space  which  stretched  out  from  one  end  of  the  horizon  to 
the  other,  until  at  the  farthest  confines  of  it  hazy  fog  veiled  the 
view.  Divided  by  great  distances,  dense  masses  of  trees  behind 
which  the  small  buildings  were  hidden,  showed  the  spots  where 
small  villages  were  situated.  Between  the  foliage,  here  and 
there,  some  white  clock  tower  would  peep  out.  The  silver  rib- 
bon of  the  river,  flashing  out  at  some  points,  could  be  traced, 
flowing  slowly,  as  though  asleep.  Its  course  was  hard  to  follow 
with  the  eye,  because  it  went  in  curious  curves,  bending  and 


454  PAX 

describing  almost  perfect  circles,  then  proceeding  again  a  short 
distance,  only  to  retrace  its  path  again  and  again,  right  across 
the  smooth  meadow  lands. 

Roberto,  mute  and  broken  in  spirit,  indifferent  to  all,  now 
gave  spurs  to  his  horse,  turned  once  more,  and  diving  amidst  the 
ferns  and  dry  plants,  stopped  at  the  brink  of  the  canyon.  He 
looked  out  over  the  vast  plain  below,  crossed  with  his  thought 
the  intervening  space,  and  there,  behind  the  nebulous  and  swim- 
ming horizon,  sought  the  city,  his  house,  the  shelter,  the  comfort 
of  his  home ;  saw  in  his  mind  his  beloved  mother,  with  her  sad 
look,  which,  the  last  time  he  had  seen  her,  had  only  cleared  up 
in  a  slight  smile  when  she  had  been  told  of  the  silent  agree- 
ment between  the  two  cousins.  The  white,  dreamy  face  of  Ines, 
too,  came  before  his  eyes.  Then,  as  if  torn  away  from  these 
dreams  in  spite  of  himself,  he  tried  to  make  out  along  the  van- 
ishing line  of  the  range  of  mountains,  far  away,  the  road  to 
Honda,  .  .  .  and  he  felt  as  though  those  large  black  eyes  were 
resting  upon  him,  full  of  passion  and  fire. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Roberto?  "  shouted  Alejandro. 

"I?     Of  what?  .  .  ." 

He  bruskly  tore  himself  away  from  his  thoughts,  and  moved 
his  head  as  if  awakening. 

"  Are  you  sad?  .  .  .  What  was  it  you  were  thinking  of?  " 

"  Well,  yes,  ...  I  felt  sad,"  he  said,  changing  his  expres- 
sion. "  Sad  because  of  General  Karlonoff's  wound.  Don't 
they  believe  it?  A  mortal  wound." 

"Wounded?     Poor  fellow!  "  said  Doctor  Miranda. 

"How,  wounded?"  replied  Alejandro.  "If  he  has  never 
been  in  battle  ...  he  will  never  get  a  bullet  in  his  chest  nor 
profit  from  the  services  of  Agiieros." 

"  Yes,  wounded.  ...  Do  you  remember  how  strongly  he  de- 
fended his  plan  of  campaign?  Well,  we  are  doing  everything 
exactly  contrary.  The  great  tactician  is  wounded,  wounded  with 
a  deadly  wound,  to  his  self-love." 

They  all  laughed,  then  took  a  drink.  Then  they  rode  off  in 
the  opposite  direction,  spurred  their  beasts,  and  again  started  on 
the  road  towards  the  wilderness,  now  near.  They  left  behind 
the  bushes,  and  came  to  a  new  region,  more  exposed,  more  deso- 
late, where  above  the  black  soil  of  the  slopes  only  dry  weeds 
could  flourish,  rosettes  resembling  handfuls  of  knives,  huge 


UNDER  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  CROSS       455 

leaves  formed  like  saws,  withered  ferns,  showing  a  grayish  tint, 
which  under  the  horses'  hoofs  gave  forth  a  metallic  sound. 

They  advanced  rapidly.  But  as  they  advanced  the  wind  be- 
came keener  and  keener,  penetrating  them  to  the  bone. 

The  wilderness  opened  before  them  with  its  aspect  of  desola- 
tion, of  nakedness,  of  misery.  The  mist  which  rose  from  the 
ground,  alternately  veiled  and  disclosed  the  interminable  spaces 
thickly  covered  with  weeds  of  a  sickly  yellow,  in  shape  looking 
like  never-ending  flocks  of  sheep.  The  wind  brought  from 
time  to  time  the  rushing  sound  of  a  torrent  which  in  leaps  and 
cascades  roared  through  the  tall  cane-brakes  with  a  dull  thunder. 
There  came  to  their  ears  strains  of  a  saddening  harmony  which 
grew  or  diminished  in  volume,  was  gone  and  again  returned. 

They  arrived  at  a  pile  of  rocks,  whence  the  torrent  escaped, 
and  then  they,  began  to  descend  the  slope  in  the  direction  of  the 
cascade. 

Alejandro  strained  his  sight  in  search  of  something:  on  the 
opposite  side,  already  on  the  summit,  in  a  rent  of  the  fog,  the 
outlines  of  the  Sisters  were  visible  for  one  instant,  and  then  it 
was  swallowed  up  again  in  the  mysterious  opaqueness,  amidst 
white  drifts. 

They  came  to  the  bottom  of  the  cane-brake,  and  crossed  the 
mountain  torrent,  whence  they  began  again  to  ascend.  The 
dense  fog  completely  enwrapped  them,  forced  them  to  rely  on 
their  sense  of  touch,  made  them  lose  their  way  for  moments. 

"Alejandro!  " 

"Roberto!" 

"  Dear  Miranda,  are  you  there?  " 

Suddenly,  up  on  the  height,  in  the  midst  of  the  fog,  a  shot 
was  heard.  Then  another,  and  next  a  discharge  en  masse. 
Several  balls  whistled  by,  while  others  struck  the  rock  close  at 
hand. 

"Casanova!  Borrero!  "  Alejandro  shouted  in  a  voice  of 
thunder,  and  he  dug  his  spurs  into  the  flanks  of  his  animal, 
which  sprang  aside  into  the  fern  beds. 

"  Boys,"  he  shouted  again,  "  what  does  this  mean?  Is  it  an 
ambush?" 

"  Ambush,  no,"  replied  Roberto,  "  there  is  nothing  to  hide  in 
here.  .  .  .  But  still,  it  may  be  an  attack  in  the  wilderness  .  .  ." 
and  he  hastened  away  in  pursuit  of  the  enemy. 


456  PAX 

Casanova  and  Borrero  likewise  went  in  pursuit,  with  his  men 
answering  the  firing,  which  seemed  to  come  from  above.  A 
salvo  discharged  upon  those  on  the  summit  sufficed  to  drive 
the  aggressors  away,  and  their  shots  now  were  lost  in  the  dis- 
tance. 

"Doctor  Miranda!  .  .  .  Where  is  Doctor  Miranda?" 
shouted  an  aide  who  was  rushing  his  mule  down  the  declivity. 

"  Here  I  am." 

"  Quick,  come  with  me,  Doctor.  Take  my  mule,  up,  up ! 
Quick!  .  .  .  Above  there,  on  the  plain,  just  at  the  end  of  the 
hillside.  .  .  ." 

"Who?" 

"  Sister  San  Ligorio.  .  .  ." 

"The  Sister.  .  .  .  Good  God!  ...  But  how?  .  .  .  How 
has  this  happened?  .  .  .  Let  us  go!  " 

He  climbed  the  steep  slope,  arrived  at  the  top,  gazed  all  about 
him,  and  discovered  some  short  distance  away,  swept  by  the  icy 
winds,  a  dilapidated  house  which  with  its  clay  walls,  its  thatched 
roof,  and  with  its  shaky  beams  looked  like  a  skeleton  that  had 
broken  through  its  covering  of  flesh.  At  the  side  of  the  little 
house,  springing  out  of  the  sterile  earth,  grew  a  number  of 
rustic  lilies.  In  the  patio  of  the  hut,  lying  on  the  ground,  rigid 
in  death,  was  Sister  San  Ligorio,  in  the  arms  of  Sister  Visita- 
cion,  who  held  her  head  in  her  lap.  The  eyes  were  closed, 
the  nose  sharp,  the  lips  ashen.  Upon  the  face  an  expression  of 
placidity  and  sweetness  had  fixed  itself  with  radiant  immobility, 
something  like  a  peaceful  smile  during  sleep.  A  red  streak 
was  filtering  out  of  the  bfeast,  was  running  down  in  front,  and 
was  sucked  in  thirstily  by  the  black  powdery  soil  of  the  patio. 
Doctor  Miranda  knelt  down,  questioned  the  other  Sister  with 
his  look,  and  began  in  a  low  and  solemn  voice  to  murmur  the 
prayers  for  the  dying. 

"  Go  forth  from  this  world,  thou  Christian  soul,  in  the  name 
of  God,  the  omnipotent  Father  who  created  thee;  in  the  name 
of  Jesus  Christ,  Son  of  the  living  God,  who  suffered  for  thee; 
in  the  name  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  who  enriched  thee  with  his 
gifts  .  .  ." 

Alejandro,  who  had  been  in  pursuit  of  the  enemy,  now  re- 
turned. 


UNDER  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  CROSS        457 

"Miranda,  are  you  there?  .  .  .  It  was  nothing.  A  small 
guerilla  band  who  took  to  their  heels  ..." 

He  shouted  this  to  the  priest  from  afar. 

"Hurry,  Sebastian!  Night  is  coming  on.  ...  But  what  is 
the  meaning  of  this?  ...  A  Sister?  .  .  .  Who?  .  .  . 
Wounded?" 

He  came  forward  with  his  horse,  then  dismounted  and  took 
several  steps  nearer,  fixing  his  gaze  upon  the  face  of  the  dead. 
Recognizing  her  and  seeing  the  blood,  the  pallor  of  the  face,  he 
was  on  the  point  of  crying  out  and  falling  forward.  But  he 
recovered  himself,  took  a  step  backward,  then  bared  his  head, 
bowed  his  body,  and  remained  mute. 

In  the  silence  there  was  heard  only  the  murmur  of  the  priest, 
who  continued : 

"  We  give  thee  back  into  the  hands  of  Him  whose  creature 
thou  wert,  so  that  after  having  undergone  the  sentence  of  death 
pronounced  against  all  men,  thou  mayest  return  to  thy  Cre- 
ator .  .  ." 

He  saw  far  away  a  fragment  of  fog  breaking  loose  from 
the  surrounding  mass,  which  being  driven  overhead  for  an 
instant  mingled  its  white  sheen  with  the  snowy  white  of  the 
corpse,  and  then  passed  on  afloat  over  the  enormous  waste 
of  the  wilderness,  spreading  out  an  enormous  shroud  over 
all. 

Alejandro  remained  standing,  mute,  transfixed,  motionless, 
a  prey  to  a  feeling  of  stupefaction,  surprise  and  bewilder- 
ment. A  deep  sob  shook  him  for  a  moment,  but  he  con- 
trolled it  and  hid  it  in  the  depths  of  his  bosom.  He  stretched 
out  his  arms,  put  his  hands  to  his  eyes,  whence  the  tears 
now  began  to  fall,  and  then  sank  to  his  knees. 

He  was  dominated  by  the  startled  consciousness  of  the  super- 
natural. Here,  close  to  him,  was  being  wrought  the  miracle 
of  the  liberation  of  the  soul,  and  he  witnessed  the  passing  away 
of  somebody  to  whom  death  was  the  better  part  of  life.  He  be- 
lieved that  Berta  de  Mortemar,  in  taking  the  veil,  had  given 
him  a  glance  of  farewell,  a  long  and  strange  glance,  impreg- 
nated with  gravity  and  tenderness,  with  which  she  now  called 
him  to  herself  on  high.  And  he  felt  that  his  existence  was 
bound  by  mysterious  ties  that  were  not  to  be  broken,  to  the 


458  PAX 

memory,  the  example  of  a  sainted  woman.  And  the  mists 
around  him  went  on  weaving  a  veil  of  mystery  over  the  whole 
saddening  scene.  The  breeze  that  blew  amongst  the  bushes 
seemed  laments,  deep-drawn  sighs.  The  voice  of  the  priest, 
which  now  and  then  was  tinged  with  solemn  inflexions,  again 
with  enthusiasm,  with  mystic  fervor,  still  continued: 

"  There  issue  forth  the  glorious  angels'  choirs  to  receive 
thee;  the  apostles  who  are  to  judge  thee,  go  to  meet  thee  with 
the  triumphant  host  of  martyrs.  Thou  art  surrounded  by  the 
shining  throng  of  confessors,  and  thou  art  welcomed  by  the 
radiant  chorus  of  virgins.  ..." 

And  those  words  which  for  the  first  time  came  to  the  ears  of 
Alejandro,  fell  like  balm  upon  his  despairing  heart.  He  im- 
agined he  saw  the  angels  on  their  winged  flight  through  space, 
carrying  off  the  soul  of  this  saint  and  bearing  her  in  triumph 
to  a  region  of  light,  of  eternal  bliss,  of  infinite  love  ...  a 
region  to  which  he,  too,  might  follow  her,  imitating  her.  .  .  . 

The  spell  which  held  him  was  broken  by  some  diggers  who 
began  to  use  their  shovels, —  sounds  which  awakened  a  pain- 
ful echo  in  his  grieving  soul. 

"The  grave!" 

Then  he  heard  the  gentle  voice  of  Sister  Visitacion: 

"  Here.     Bury  her  near  the  house!  " 

Alejandro  rose,  looked  about  him,  stared  with  horror  at  the 
brambles  shooting  up  from  the  ground,  at  the  mean  little  hut, 
and  then  noticed  the  lilies  not  far  away. 

"  No,"  he  then  said  in  a  half -strangled  voice,  "  here  amongst 
these  lilies." 

They  all  waited  in  silence.  They  stood  erect,  raised  the 
body,  and  placed  it  down  in  the  grave.  Doctor  Miranda,  in 
a  last  appeal,  with  a  voice  broken  by  tears,  but  in  which  the 
fervor  of  his  faith  was  distinguishable,  the  fiery  outburst  ~oi 
his  trembling  hope,  said: 

"  Lord,  into  Thy  hands  I  commit  and  to  Thy  compassion  I 
leave  the  soul  of  Thy  handmaiden  who,  dead  to  the  world,  lives 
in  Thee  through  all  eternity. 

"  May  she  rest  in  peace!  " 

Dead  to  the  world!  Thus,  yes,  thus  Alejandro  had  seen 
her  since  she  had  donned,  like  a  virgin  veil,  the  white  hood  of 
the  Sister.  Dead  to  the  world!  But  alive  in  God.  For  God 


UNDER  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  CROSS       459 

had  been  her  longing, —  His  will  and  His  law, —  and  this  it 
was  that  had  imprinted  upon  her  countenance  the  seal  of  home- 
sickness not  curable  here  below,  the  sacred  repose  of  hope, 
and  had  given  to  her  blue  eyes  that  mysterious  light,  that  un- 
speakable fascination. 

Doctor  Miranda,  standing  near  the  grave,  with  his  hands 
raised  to  Heaven,  blessed  this  last  place  of  repose,  and  implored 
as  in  a  final  farewell,  eternal  rest  and  eternal  light  for  Sister  San 
Ligorio. 

"  May  she  rest  in  peace!  " 

They  were  about  to  throw  a  last  shovelful  of  earth  upon  the 
body  below,  but  Alejandro  stopped  them,  plucked  instead  an 
armful  of  lilies,  knelt  down,  bent  over  the  pit,  and  then  dropped 
the  blooming  flowers  over  neck,  bosom,  arms  and  hands  of  the 
slumbering  dead.  Then  he  gave  a  sign  to  the  grave  diggers,  and 
let  the  black  earth  fall  upon  the  snowy  linen,  forehead,  lilies, 
over  that  body  which  not  even  at  that  instant  lost  its  peculiar 
seal  of  distinction,  grandeur,  and  majesty.  Alejandro  made 
next  a  tall  cross  out  of  branches,  and  imbedded  it  solidly  in 
the  earth  at  the  head  of  the  grave. 

"  Now  let  us  go,"  said  Doctor  Miranda,  "  since  all  has  been 
accomplished." 

And  all  the  others  left,  heads  hanging  low,  and  began  to 
climb  a  steep  hill. 

The  priest  approached  his  friend,  who  still  lingered  near  the 
grave,  standing  alone,  with  bare  head,  and  mute. 

"  Let  us  go,"  he  insisted  gently,  "  let  us  go,  Alejandro!  " 

But  he,  without  turning  his  head,  extended  his  arm  silently, 
pointed  to  the  road. 

The  priest  went  off  slowly.  On  attaining  the  top  of  the 
height,  he  once  more  turned  his  head,  and  saw  Alejandro  kneel- 
ing, bent  over  the  grave  ...  at  the  foot  of  the  cross.  By 
the  movement  of  his  shoulders  the  priest  saw  that  his  friend 
was  shaken  by  interminable  sobs. 

They  then  went  into  the  dense  mists  as  into  a  floating 
shroud.  But  at  last,  late  in  the  afternoon,  the  rising  wind 
swept  the  fog  away. 

The  sun  went  down.  It  was  a  wintry  sunset,  veiled  some- 
times by  ragged  clouds,  then  the  firmament  was  bathed  in 
light,  leaving  the  wide  extent  of  the  landscape  in  dark  shade. 


460  PAX 

The  outlines  of  the  various  slopes  remain  in  the  east  piled  one 
upon  another,  with  long  spots  of  faint  purple. 

A  cold  breath  runs  through  the  meadows,  a  shiver  presaging 
the  night.  The  last  ray  of  the  sun,  piercing  the  dark  brown 
of  the  west,  draws  at  random  a  fillet  of  light  upon  the  leaden 
background,  and  crosses  the  space  covered  with  vapors,  bathing 
in  melancholy  mood  the  summits  of  the  slopes,  kissing  its  rim 
with  a  golden  shimmer,  enlarging  the  shadow  of  the  cross,  which 
it  traces  upon  the  naked  earth,  and  is  lost  in  the  depths  only 
to  reappear  on  the  next  slope,  fantastically  dilating  in  the  lone- 
some landscape  of  the  wilderness. 

The  army  continued  its  march  in  the  light  of  the  moon,  and 
about  midnight  arrived  at  Pan  de  Azucar,  only  two  leagues 
distant  from  the  camp  of  Ronderos. 

"  I  must  give  these  poor  fellows  a  bit  of  food  and  rest,"  said 
Roberto,  walking  towards  a  tent  in  company  of  Doctor  Mi- 
randa. 

"  And  to-morrow,  or  rather  to-day,"  continued  the  priest, 
looking  at  his  watch  in  the  light  of  a  camp  fire,  "  we  must  hear 
mass." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  replied  Roberto,  with  a  sad  smile.  "  Happy 
New  Year!" 

The  swift  trot  of  a  horse,  its  snorting  audible  some  distance 
away,  the  clanking  of  spurs,  .  .  it  is  Alejandro. 

And  Roberto  read  in  the  brooding  expression  of  the  face, 
the  crisis  that  had  come  to  his  friend,  the  renewal  of  his 
being.  He  read  the  mystic  atavism  of  the  race  that  was 
triumphing.  He  remembered  the  seal  of  irrevocable  sadness, 
of  saintly  resignation  which  marked  the  face  of  his  own  mother. 

He  then  comprehended  with  the  divining  power  of  affection 
that  Alejandro  wished  to  remain  alone  with  the  priest.  He 
therefore  left  and  went  to  give  directions  for  the  field  mass 
with  which  the  New  Year  was  to  be  greeted. 

Soon  after,  dawn  began  to  throw  faint  lights  upon  the  wide 
extent  of  the  wilderness:  a  half-light  that  was  equally  dis- 
tributed and  reposeful,  perceivable  as  though  from  behind  a 
curtain,  coming  down  to  illuminate  vaguely  the  sickly  vegeta- 
tion, the  fanlike  branches  of  the  huge  ferns,  the  shaggy  leaves 
of  the  weeds,  the  handfuls  of  straw,  the  icy  solitude. 


UNDER  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  CROSS       461 

The  whole  landscape  was  now  softly  illuminated.  In  the 
zenith  the  curtain  was  beginning  to  part,  and  the  pieces  of 
mist  falling  in  a  slow  shower  towards  the  soil,  were  unfolded 
and  broken  up  in  their  flight  toward  the  horizon,  letting  the 
azure  of  the  upper  sky  peer  through  the  rents.  In  the  fore- 
ground were  appearing,  in  an  immense  picture,  the  serried 
ranks  of  the  battalions.  Farther  away,  the  white  row  of 
tents  appeared,  and  here  and  there,  pillars  of  smoke  were  rising 
straight  in  the  still  air  of  the  early  dawn. 

The  divisions  were  forming  at  the  foot  of  a  slope,  upon 
which  a  scaffold  had  been  erected.  There  an  altar,  on  the 
right  of  it  a  stand  of  flags,  and  above  them,  a  great  cross 
made  of  branches. 

At  intervals,  tall,  erect,  fringed  in  gold,  the  flags.  The  one 
of  the  Milan  battalion  bore  funereal  ribbons.  The  icy  wind 
of  dawn  shook  them.  The  black  ribbons  emitted  a  slight  noise 
as  though  of  fatigue,  a  dull  moan,  and  again  fell  along  the 
flagstaff.  The  sun  and  the  cold,  the  storms  and  rains,  the  air 
of  a  hundred  combats  had  taken  away  the  luster  of  the  colors, 
merged  the  originally  bright  hues.  But  the  flags  themselves 
were  still  there  straight  and  proud,  as  symbols  of  faith,  of 
enthusiasm,  of  indomitable  valor. 

Upon  the  altar  shone  the  cover  and  the  white  color  of  the 
missal  whose  leaves  the  wind  was  fluttering  rapidly.  On  the 
other  side  there  were  visible  two  smoky  fires  whose  dying 
flames  were  trembling  in  the  keen  air.  The  chasuble  was 
folded  in  straight,  rigid  folds,  and  the  satin  of  it  crinkled, 
showing  dimly  a  crown  of  thorns  on  the  back  of  the  priest  that 
wore  it.  Standing  close  by  him  a  soldier  had  lifted  up  a 
huge  baldachin  crowned  by  a  silver  cross. 

The  mass  begins.  The  military  band  breaks  the  silence, 
with  a  march  that  scatters  its  notes  far  and  wide.  The  whole 
army  forms  but  one  shadowy  patch  on  the  scene.  In  the  im- 
mense ensemble  there  are  no  single  faces  to  be  noticed,  but 
merely  the  total  mass,  the  colossal  pile  of  gleaming  bayonets. 

At  the  lifting  of  the  host  the  little  bell  sounds  feebly,  and 
its  tinkling  is  lost  in  the  wide  space.  A  tremendous  roll  of 
the  drums  in  the  center  is  answered  by  another  similar  one 
farther  away,  and  so,  from  battalion  to  battalion,  like  a  sue- 


462  PAX 

cession  of  echoes,  the  stirring  tune  is  repeated.  Later  there 
mingle  with  it  the  clear  notes  of  the  trumpets,  the  chords  of 
martial  strains  on  all  instruments  together. 

The  soldiers  present  arms  at  a  given  signal,  and  as  if  the 
territory  itself  were  hiding  in  sections,  suddenly  a  number  of 
battalions  bend  down  below  the  level  of  others,  the  flags  are 
raised  in  the  morning  wind,  flutter,  and  seem  to  embody  the 
faith  of  the  whole  army,  prostrate  on  its  knees,  for  in  the 
hands  of  the  priest  is  at  this  moment  raised  the  host. 

Dissonant  flourishes,  martial  disharmonies,  increase  the  tur- 
moil with  their  strident  notes,  cross  and  recross,  confound  each 
other,  and  at  last  melt  into  one  tremendous  triumph  of  sound. 

Roberto,  who  assisted  at  the  mass,  broke  out  in  the  confiteor, 
and  Alejandro  came  forth  from  out  of  the  center  of  the  army, 
and  with  hands  joined  passed  through  the  midst  of  the  soldiers, 
who  on  seeing  their  commander,  pale,  emaciated,  consumed  by 
a  strange  grief,  observed  him  with  surprise,  with  respect, 
with  affection.  On  arriving  at  the  altar,  Alejandro  bent  low 
and  then  prostrated  himself.  The  ministering  priest  advanced, 
gave  communion  to  Roberto,  and  seeing  how  Alejandro  now 
crowned  that  conversion  for  which  he  had  hoped  for  so  long,  a 
sentiment  of  saintly  exultation,  of  tenderness  moved  him  deeply, 
stirred  him  to  the  innermost  heart. 

His  voice,  in  presenting  the  host,  became  veiled.  Alejandro 
raised  his  head,  sent  his  gaze,  as  the  evening  before,  searchingly 
heavenwards,  as  though  following  a  track,  a  path  traced  up 
there  for  him  to  see.  Then  he  fastened  his  eyes  upon  the 
enormous  cross  fashioned  of  branches,  and  as  at  that  same  in- 
stant the  sun  issued  piercingly,  it  appeared  to  be  the  cross  it- 
self which  lighted  up  with  its  waves  of  splendor  the  whole 
landscape,  as  though  it  spread  brilliant  rays  over  the  world. 
That  light  of  dawn,  so  new  and  smiling,  bathed  Alejandro's 
face,  which  expressed  adoration,  sanctified  anguish,  satisfied 
love,  even  love  superhuman. 

Doctor  Miranda  could  not  contain  himself  any  longer,  but 
let  his  tears  run  unrestrainedly  down  his  cheeks.  A  pro- 
found emotion,  the  fever  of  enthusiasm,  the  contagion  of  exalta- 
tion ran  through  the  ranks,  shook  the  army  from  end  to  end, 
and  deep  sobs  were  heard,  singly  at  first,  then  multiplying, 
so  that  they  drowned  the  words  of  the  officiating  priest,  who  felt 


PAX  463 

vibrating  within  him  the  piety  of  the  priest,  the  fire  of  the 
apostle,  the  serene  affection  of  the  friend. 

"  The  body  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  guard  thy  soul  for 
eternal  life! 


CHAPTER  XL 

PAX 

"  I  HAVE  this  humble  auto-apotheosis  of  yours,  General  and 
Doctor  Landaburo,  which  has  accidentally  fallen  into  my 
hands,  and  which  I  take  the  liberty  of  returning  to  yours," 
said  Tubalcain  Cardoso,  handing  him  the  letter  intercepted 
and  restored  by  Roberto. 

Cardoso  was  a  man  of  feeble  physique,  nervous,  restless,  yel- 
low complexioned,  with  eyes  that  glowed  like  live  coal.  He 
seemed  to  be  devoured  by  an  inner  fire,  and  frequently  made  a 
gesture  as  though  he  had  swallowed  bitter  saliva.  His  fea- 
tures were  those  of  a  typical  fanatic,  of  an  apostle  of  destruc- 
tion, of  a  furibund  demagogue.  When  he  now  began  to  speak, 
he  controlled  his  irritation  with  difficulty. 

Landaburo  was  at  the  time  dictating  simultaneously  to  four 
of  his  aides,  and  these,  despite  the  intense  cold,  managed  to  lift 
their  voices  to  the  provisional  president  with  whom  fate  had 
joined  them. 

Seeing  the  attitude  of  Cardoso,  they  left  the  apartment,  in 
order  to  summon  a  number  of  Landaburo's  friends,  fearing  a 
complete  disagreement  and,  perhaps,  a  violent  scene  between  the 
two  leaders. 

"  I  can  understand,  General,"  answered  Landaburo,  without 
losing  his  calmness,  "  that  you  feel  mortified  at  the  conflict 
of  authority  that  has  arisen  between  us.  But  all  that  may  be 
smoothed  over.  We  can  have  a  grand  review  during  which  we 
two  might  embrace  in  front  of  the  whole  army,  and  after- 
wards I  might  issue  a  proclamation  containing  a  grand  eulogy 
of  yourself.  Later,  I  could  name  you  minister  of  war,  in 
charge  of  the  office  of  secretary  of  finance,  so  as  to  entrust  to 
you  the  management  of  the  public  funds.  ...  I  have  learnt 


464  PAX 

that  you  have  compared  my  war  exactions  to  those  of  Francis  I 
and  of  Caesar." 

"  I  have  indeed  compared  them  with  both,"  said  Cardoso, 
"  because  after  your  numberless  defeats  you  might  exclaim 
with  the  one:  '  All  is  lost  save  the  baggage,'  and  with  Caesar, 
'  I  came,  I  saw,  and  I  provisioned  myself  anew.'  And  as  for 
your  nomination,  I  decline  the  honor.  Men  who  have  no  ideals, 
nor  fixed  political  belief,  who  accommodate  their  principles 
to  circumstances,  who  have  neither  faith  nor  flag,  may  become 
useful  as  heads  of  commission  houses,  but  not  of  a  cause,  nor 
of  an  army  .  .  .  no,  indeed." 

As  he  spoke,  giving  vent  to  his  wrath,  he  became  calm  once 
more,  recovered  his  serenity;  the  guerilla  chief  disappeared,  and 
the  philosopher  and  apostle  by  conviction  came  to  the  surface. 

"  What  if  I  am  an  anarchist !  "  he  went  on.  "  Those  are 
my  principles,  and  I  have  professed  them  with  undying  faith 
for  the  past  forty  years.  The  great  French  Revolution  stopped 
midway  on  the  road  leading  to  redemption.  The  Rights  of 
Man  remained  thus  only  half  developed,  without  guarantee 
or  protection.  I  had  seen  in  you,  General  Landaburo,  an 
efficient  collaborator,  active  and  enthusiastic.  Your  speech 
at  the  Bicontinental  was  for  me  a  revelation,  a  hope  and  a 
counsel,  because  it  made  me  regard  you  as  my  comrade  who 
would  help  me  in  the  extermination  of  law-trammeled  society, 
in  the  fair  distribution  of  all  wealth.  And  let  me  tell  you, 
General  and  Doctor,  I  have  not  yet  lost  that  hope." 

Outside  of  the  shop  in  which  the  two  chiefs  were  talking, 
voices  began  to  be  heard:  it  was  a  perfect  fermentation  of 
sedition  and  mutiny. 

"Death  to  Landaburo!  " 

"  Death  to  Cardoso!  " 

The  two  went  out. 

"  General,"  continued  Cardoso,  dilating  his  nostrils,  "  do  you 
not  perceive  the  odor  of  decay?  All  over  the  Republic  are 
bleaching  the  bones  of  the  soldiers  of  the  Revaluation  cause. 
In  this  camp  there  are  thousands  of  dead  bodies  lying  un- 
buried.  Do  you  think  these  men  are  to  be  told  now  that  they 
have  died  defending  an  evolution, —  mere  theories?  That  war 
is  a  crime?  Do  you  think  it  possible  for  a  whole  country  to 
fling  itself  into  a  war,  to  fight  a  hundred  battles  and  to  drench 


PAX  465 

the  soil  with  blood  simply  for  an  R  more  or  less  ?  Would  it  be 
enough  to  answer  them  by  a  smile  or  by  a  shrug  of  the 
shoulder  ? 

"  In  this  letter,  General,"  added  Cardoso,  snatching  that 
paper  from  the  hands  of  Landaburo,  and  waving  it  in  the 
air,  "  you  claim,  and  it  is  the  truth,  that  martyrdom  does  not 
extirpate  ideas.  But  that  which  those  who  have  sacrificed  their 
lives  cannot  accomplish,  is  accomplished  by  the  termination 
of  the  system  of  the  closed  door,  and  the  introduction  of 
'  evolution  '  and  the  '  open  door.'  And  this  is  your  definite 
credo?  " 

And  he  broke  out  in  a  fit  of  noisy,  sarcastic  laughter,  full 
of  scorn  and  provocation,  in  which  he  gave  full  vent  to  his 
spleen. 

In  the  camp  the  agitation  was  increasing.  The  friends  of 
the  two  leaders  were  ready  to  kill  each  other. 

Landaburo,  who  felt  the  support  of  his  partizans,  exclaimed 
with  his  voice  of  the  parade  field,  changing  from  aggressor 
to  victim : 

"  Comrades,  friends,  this  man  ruins  my  faith  in  virtue,  be- 
cause he  has  an  abnormal  conscience.  .  .  .  Between  us  two 
no  tribunal  whatsoever  must  decide,  but  the  opinion  of  the 
whole  of  Spanish  America,  if  not  the  tribunal  of  The  Hague." 

Cardoso  listened  to  him  with  his  bitter  smile.  Some  of 
Landaburo's  friends  now  came  up,  then  he  lifted  his  voice, 
made  his  famous  circular  gesture,  and  continued  in  his  trumpet 
voice : 

"  I  am  no  anonymous  person.  I  bear  a  name  illustrious  in 
science,  literature,  politics  and  military  knowledge.  My  ideas 
have  been  defined  in  my  proclamation  of  Calamar.  Those 
brief  but  eloquent  sentences  are  a  program,  my  firm  belief, 
spontaneous  and  definite. 

"  The  revolution  represents  the  only  sort  of  legitimacy,  the 
only  right  really  possible  and  admissible  in  this  free  country. 
A  curse  on  him  who  would  speak  of  reconciliation,  of  peace,  of 
disarming  and  compromises." 

"  And  then,  to  furnish  the  most  striking  proof  of  my  adhesion 
to  those  principles,  I  am  going  to  offer  once  more  my  life, 
to  sacrifice  myself  for  Revaluation.  I  am  going  to  play  at 
ducks  and  drakes  with  my  existence,  in  order  that  after  such 


466  PAX 

service  nobody  may  reproach  me.  Gentlemen  aides,"  he  wound 
up,  "  please  let  all  the  detachments  know  at  once  that  I  am  go- 
ing to  head  a  general  charge  upon^the  enemy,  desperate,  but  de- 
cisive. Soldiers,  we  are  going  to  change  History  itself.  Long 
life  to  the  Revolution!  " 

"That  is  an  absurdity!"  exclaimed  Cardoso.  "I  com- 
mand here.  I  am  constantly  receiving  reenforcement  and  muni- 
tions. Within  a  few  days  I  shall  be  able  to  duplicate  the 
fighting  strength  of  the  army,  roll  up  the  enemy,  march  upon 
Bogota,  which  is  bared  of  all  forces.  Ronderos  is  admirably 
fortified,  and  if  we  are  repulsed,  the  repulse  will  change  into 
a  defeat  and  disaster." 

But  Landaburo  heard  him  no  longer.  He  had  arrayed  him- 
self in  full  glory  of  battle,  and  on  horseback,  followed  by  his 
aides,  in  heroic  attitude,  he  was  riding  up  and  down  the  ranks. 
Soon  along  the  whole  battle  front  the  cry  could  be  heard:  "  To 
the  charge!  To  the  charge!  " 

Meanwhile  Borrero  and  Alejandro  had  started  with  the 
Grenadiers  after  the  mass  was  over.  Roberto  and  the  rest  of 
the  army  had  remained  at  Pan  de  Azucar,  where  a  week  previ- 
ous the  first  hostile  meeting  had  taken  place,  a  most  bitterly 
waged  fight  —  between  Ronderos  and  Cardoso,  the  latter  re- 
tiring to  La  Cabrera,  not,  however,  without  contesting  every 
foot  of  the  ground  with  his  opponent. 

Innumerable  bodies  lay  untuned  on  the  field,  mutely  bearing 
witness,  as  they  lay  thus  in  heaps,  to  the  horrible  long  duel  in 
which  the  combatants  met,  fought,  retired  only  to  advance 
again,  recovering  and  losing  the  same  point  many  times. 

An  icy  wind  whistled  with  gloomy  persistence  in  the  ears  of 
the  troops  who  had  in  front  of  them  a  succession  of  slopes,  like 
an  immobile  wave  of  earth;  upon  these  slopes  could  clearly  be 
distinguished  the  dead,  resembling  white  or  red  stones  in  the 
distance. 

Flocks  of  vultures,  drawn  from  incredible  distance  by  the 
strong  scent  of  decomposition,  were  obscuring  the  sun,  and  in 
their  never-varying  migration  to  and  fro  crossed  the  wide  space 
like  clouds  of  a  tempest,  covering  the  soil  with  a  cloak  of 
black,  filling  space  with  their  horrible  croakings.  They  kept 
on  sniffing  the  air  busily  for  long  distances,  lost  themselves 
along  the  many  declivities,  the  ravines,  the  cane-brakes,  the 


PAX  467 

gullies,  and  after  their  banquet,  when  replete  with  their  hor- 
rible diet,  gathered  in  interminable  rows,  opened  their  wings  to 
the  sun,  while  more  and  more  of  them  were  still  arriving  in 
dark  masses  from  all  the  points  of  the  horizon,  descending,  scat- 
tering, sating  themselves  with  the  fat  meal,  never  able  to  get 
enough  of  the  splendid  feast  of  human  flesh.  Far  away,  in  the 
depths  of  a  steep,  narrow  valley,  an  arm  is  being  moved  to 
and  fro,  a  cloth  waved  for  appeal,  a  pitiful  cry  for  help  unavail- 
ingly  heard. 

Doctor  Miranda  dismounted,  begged  Alejandro  to  proceed  on 
the  march,  and  finally  started  on  his  way  alone,  at  the  bottom 
of  the  ravine.  The  vultures  retired,  croaking  horribly,  and  then 
returned  to  their  prey.  Swarms  of  horrible  flies  assailed  the 
good  priest,  and  a  thick  and  deadly  vapor  shut  him  in  from 
all  sides. 

But  the  priest,  overcoming  all  his  repugnance  and  facing  all 
the  dangers,  went  on  nevertheless,  looking  at  corpses  that  had 
lost  their  skin  and  who  in  strange  and  forced  positions  exhibited 
the  network  of  their  nerves,  the  shapeless  mass  of  muscles  lying 
bare;  greenish  faces,  livid, —  the  mouth  full  of  bleeding  clots,  the 
eye  sockets  empty;  he  saw  human  countenances  which  in  the 
process  of  decomposition, —  delicious  morsels  for  these  dreadful 
birds  of  prey, —  had  been  transformed  into  horrible  fragments 
of  putrescent  flesh  and  fiber.  With  the  relaxation  of  muscles 
and  sinews  and  nerves  even  those  dead  bodies  left  unmutilated 
had  assumed  horrible  expressions,  some  exhibiting  an  af- 
frighted air,  others  an  even  more  ghastly  appearance  of  laughter 
or  ribaldry,  of  a  paroxysm  of  grief. 

Finally  the  priest  arrived  at  the  bottom  of  the  ravine.  There 
he  saw  another  fearful  picture.  Surrounded  by  greedy  vul- 
tures that  had  picked  their  eyes,  there  lay  a  young  and  once 
comely  mother,  with  a  small  and  half  devoured  child,  both  in  a 
state  of  advanced  decomposition,  the  little  child  with  its  mouth 
still  at  the  maternal  bosom  whence  it  had  formerly  drawn  its 
nourishment.  The  strong  wind  that  was  blowing  stirred  the 
white  cloth  that  had  covered  up  the  even  whiter  bosom  of  the 
poor  mother,  and  her  beautiful  chestnut  hair  was  fluttering  in 
the  gust. 

And  Doctor  Miranda,  his  heart  deeply  touched,  saw  in  his 
mind  all  the  successive  stages  that  had  preceded  death  for 


468  PAX 

these  two:  the  dread  of  this  fate  that  had  overtaken  the 
mother  in  the  end;  the  wailing  and  whimpering  of  the  little 
creature  whom  its  only  protectress  was  herself  powerless  to 
help;  the  slow  starvation,  the  mortal  terror,  the  approach  of 
these  scavengers  of  war  and  death,  the  final  yielding  to  their 
assaults,  the  agony,  the  bitterness  of  the  end,  drop  by  drop,  of 
their  awful  fate.  He  thought  he  could  still  hear  the  last  cries 
of  despair,  the  last  farewell,  the  last  desperate  attempts  at  es- 
cape and  the  last  gaze  around  for  a  merciful  hand,  for  assistance 
from  the  one  who  probably  himself  meanwhile  lay  a  bleeding 
corpse  not  far  away.  He  had  himself  been  the  comrade,  the 
friend,  confidant  and  confessor  of  those  men  of  whom  many 
had  scarcely  retained  any  human  resemblance.  But  though 
his  heart  was  heavy  within  him,  he  told  himself  that  he  must  not 
abandon  them,  that  he  must  pray  and  weep  for  them;  before  his 
eyes  passed  at  that  moment  the  memory  of  so  many  anxieties 
and  almost  superhuman  sufferings,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  to  console  and  encourage  these  poor  beings  was  beyond 
his  strength. 

Like  a  huge  picture  the  whole  campaign  appeared  before  his 
inner  consciousness,  its  bloody  scenes,  its  interminable  marches, 
its  sleepless  nights,  the  hunger  and  thirst  by  which  these  men 
had  so  often  been  tortured,  the  conflagrations,  the  heat  and 
cold  and  rain,  the  wounds  and  disfigurements,  the  fever  and 
feebleness,  the  mud  and  slime  and  blood  .  .  .  and  from  the 
depths  of  his  soul  he  sent  a  fervent  plea  to  Heaven,  a  plea  for 
the  eternal  repose  of  the  dead.  And  for  the  living,  a  speedy 
peace. 

And  in  the  midst  of  his  prayer,  there  came  to  his  ears, 
skilled  in  distinguishing  the  turbulent  noise  of  combat,  the 
echo,  at  first  faint,  but  quite  distinct  afterwards,  of  a  battle; 
he  turned  hurriedly  in  the  direction  where  a  new  slaughter  was 
shortly  to  fill  the  field  with  the  bitterness,  the  death  rattle,  the 
groans  and  the  tears  of  struggle.  He  hastened  once  more  where 
death  called  him  with  iron  voice.  The  turmoil  went  on  in- 
creasing rapidly,  and  he  mounted  his  beast  and  quickened  his 
pace. 

And  as  he  advanced  along  a  painful  path,  still  strewn  with 
the  fallen  of  previous  fights,  new  pictures  of  pity,  of  violence,  of 
horror  and  pain  appeared  before  his  vision. 


PAX  469 

Out  of  miserable  huts  made  of  branches  and  besmeared  with 
mud,  there  issued  forth  men  half  nude,  half  starved,  covered 
with  horrible  pustules  from  a  deadly,  a  contagious  disease. 

A  woman  who  held  the  head  of  a  dying  man;  soldiers  in 
whose  face  could  be  read  lack  of  sleep,  exhaustion  and  fatigue, 
and  who  were  warming  themselves  at  a  fire.  Others  he  saw 
who  were  fighting  wildly  for  a  morsel  of  rotten  meat.  Farther 
away  there  was  an  old  man  who  was  seated  with  his  head 
held  between  his  hands,  weeping  bitterly.  Then  there  advanced 
along  the  road  a  man  in  rags,  nothing  but  skin  and  bones,  who 
made  faces  and  contortions,  danced,  broke  out  in  bursts  of  silly 
laughter  ...  a  crazy  soldier.  On  his  approach  there  fled 
and  hid  men  and  women  of  sinister  aspect,  who  were  inter- 
rupted in  their  task  of  searching  the  dead,  in  robbing  them, 
in  despoiling  them  even  of  their  last  stitch  of  bloodstained,  torn 
and  soiled  clothing. 

Then  he  came  across  field  surgeons  working  in  the  open. 
.  .  .  The  blood  was  flowing,  mosquitoes  and  flies  were  buzzing 
thickly.  On  the  soil  are  glittering  all  those  instruments  of 
torture.  The  surgeons,  bent  over  their  bloody  task,  cutting 
through  the  flesh,  laying  bare  the  bones,  sawing  through  them, 
manipulating  the  entrails  without  paying  the  slightest  atten- 
tion to  the  cries  of  pain  from  their  patients,  themselves  in- 
different, impassible. 

As  the  priest  advanced  farther  and  farther,  the  roar  of  the 
battle  became  more  distinct,  a  ceaseless  roar  and  explosion, 
and  yonder,  at  the  bottom  of  the  deep  depression,  still  hidden 
by  the  slope,  issued  as  from  a  furnace,  ruddy  flames,  pil- 
lars of  smoke,  an  incessant  thunder  which  the  echo  repeated  from 
hill  to  hill,  being  thus  prolonged  through  the  whole  mountain 
range,  like  the  rumblings  in  the  interior  of  the  earth  that  an- 
nounce and  accompany  volcanic  eruptions. 

In  a  word,  he  saw  in  one  immense  panorama,  the'  total  ex- 
tent of  the  battle  scene.  In  front  of  him  was  the  enemy;  in 
the  center,  upon  a  height,  the  houses  of  La  Cabrera.  Yonder 
was  the  army  of  General  Ronderos.  And  between  the  two 
contending  forces  there  was  a  deep  ravine.  From  place  to 
place,  through  the  immense  smoke  clouds  which  were  spread 
over  the  entire  battlefield  like  a  bluish  mist,  could  be  seen 
the  masses  of  the  revolutionary  battalions,  who  were  by  now 


470  PAX 

separated  from  the  fortifications,  hiding  amongst  the  rocks,  later 
reappearing  on  the  plains.  The  chain  of  trenches  of  the  Gov- 
ernment forces  —  square  upon  square  —  was  afire  from  point 
to  point,  like  a  rivulet  of  burning  powder.  It  was  one  sole 
flash  of  fire,  one  sole  streak  of  lightning,  one  sole  thunder,  mak- 
ing the  region  tremble,  from  the  soil  of  the  earth  to  the  height 
of  the  firmament. 

Still  Doctor  Miranda  went  on,  got  to  the  brink  of  the  battle 
line,  crossed  through  the  ranks,  scorned  the  bullets  which 
whistled  all  about  him,  sometimes  emitting  whining  or  moan- 
ing sounds.  Still  proceeding,  he  went  over  the  whole  extent 
of  the  camp,  because  amid  the  shouts  of  the  combatants,  the 
sharp  reports  of  the  rifle  fire,  and  clatter  of  the  machine  guns, 
the  blatant  notes  of  the  bands,  and  the  tunes  of  the  trumpets, 
he  was  still  able  to  distinguish  the  groans,  murmured  plaints 
and  sighs  of  the  dying.  And  these  voices  which  in  his  heart 
outweighed  those  of  the  tumultuous  battle  itself,  seemed  to 
plead  with  him  imperiously,  tortured  him,  and  his  soul  began  to 
overflow  anew  with  bitterness,  and  the  immense  mass  of  suf- 
ferings exhaled  by  these  unfortunate  thousands  weighed  down 
his  mind. 

"  Vocem  terroris  audivimus,  formido  et  non  est  pax." 

11  General  Borrero,"  the  commanding  general  had  said,  indi- 
cating with  his  fleshless  hand  a  point  in  the  affray,  "  advance 
with  your  battalion  as  far  as  that  height  over  there,  fronting  the 
houses  of  La  Cabrera.  Destroy  them  with  your  guns,  and 
likewise  every  building  in  the  vicinity,  and  the  mud  walls  and 
fortifications.  That's  all." 

Then  with  a  gesture  that  meant  to  hide  his  anxiety,  he 
stroked  his  mustache  and  his  jaw,  and  then  went  back  passing 
along  his  lines,  thus  infusing,  by  his  mere  presence,  indomi- 
table courage  in  his  soldiers, —  electrifying  the  whole  army. 

Under  a  rain  of  bullets  Borrero  occupied  his  new  position, 
had  his  guns  placed  and  adjusted  (they  were  the  famous  long 
100  Karlonoff-Yamagata  of  improved  type),  and  got  his  bat- 
teries ready  for  action.  In  the  midst  of  the  general  combat 
the  army  anxiously  kept  gazing  at  the  Grenadiers  and  their 
new  guns  of  "  improved  "  pattern.  For  there  the  decisive  blow 
was  to  be  given.  They  would  dominate  the  most  important 
position  of  the  enemy,  would  make  a  breach  in  his  ranks  that 


PAX  471 

not  alone  would  dislocate  his  whole  forces,  but  would  at  the 
same  time  open  passage  to  the  army  of  the  Government. 

"Fire!" 

The  ten  noisy  mouths  of  the  "  improved  "  type  of  gun  burst 
forth  with  one  tremendous  report.  But  Borrero  noticed  with 
alarm  that  in  the  report  itself  there  had  been  something  flat, 
weak,  abnormal. 

The  houses  he  had  aimed  at  were  untouched,  intact.  Shot 
upon  shot  was  fired.  The  result  remained  the  same.  Nothing. 
The  projectiles  fell  at  the  distance  of  a  few  yards.  The  "  re- 
formed Karlonoff  "  could  achieve  nothing. 

The  enemy  in  front  broke  out  into  fits  of  ironic  laughter. 
Cardoso  (for  Landaburo,  his  purpose  of  displaying  himself 
for  a  moment  accomplished,  had  disappeared),  stood  erect  in  the 
trench : 

"Machetes!     Let  us  take  the  guns!  "  he  cried. 

And  he  headed  the  attack  upon  the  cannons  with  two  thou- 
sand picked  men.  The  famous  guns  fired  shot  upon  shot, 
just  as  rapidly  as  they  could  be  loaded,  but  the  evident  use- 
lessness  of  these  cannons  only  served  to  fire  the  assailing 
force  with  high  courage. 

The  battalion  which  up  to  this  moment  had  regarded  these 
famous  guns  as  their  comrades,  as  endowed  with  pluck  and 
heroism,  as  something  which  gave  to  their  own  souls  something 
of  the  strength  and  toughness  of  the  bronze  the  guns  were 
forged  out  of,  on  beholding  them  so  useless,  were  filled  with 
despair.  The  ranks  of  Borrero's  men  began  to  break,  the 
soldiers  turned  around,  stumbling  against  each  other.  Suddenly 
Tubalcain  Cardoso  could  be  observed  pointing  his  sword,  with 
a  gesture  of  victory,  at  the  batteries  before  him. 

Borrero,  however,  made  up  his  mind  to  save  these  guns 
or  to  perish  with  them.  He  had  his  trumpeter  blow  the  signal : 
Fall  back  upon  the  reserves!  And  the  soldiers,  hearing  this 
signal  which  regulates  their  movements  and  takes  the  place  of 
waning  will  power,  with  disciplined  movements,  mechanically, 
automatically,  fell  back  a  few  paces,  and  then  grouped  them- 
selves anew  around  the  flag,  aligned  themselves,  become  once 
more  an  organized  troop. 

The  cheerful  and  vibrant  accents  of  their  own  chief,  hearten 
them  still  more. 


472  PAX 

"  My  brave  boys,"  he  cries,  "  not  a  single  shot.  Let  us  re- 
ceive them  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet,  which  we  know  how  to 
wield.  .  .  .  We  are  again  in  serried  ranks,  and  we  have  al- 
ways beaten  them  before.  We  are  going  to  beat  them  now." 

After  a  strident  clinking  the  short  and  wide  glittering  steel 
weapon  has  been  attached  to  the  rifles,  and  the  soldiers,  acting 
on  command  of  their  officers,  throw  themselves  on  guard,  right 
foot  behind,  the  body  leaning  forwards,  the  arms  stretched 
out  and  the  bayonet  lowered.  Pushing,  half  frightened  and 
puzzled,  the  machete  men  meanwhile  have  reached  the  spot. 
But  the  serene  attitude  of  the  battalion  which  they  had  believed 
defeated  in  advance,  stops  them. 

They  are  two  thousand  black,  ferocious  savages,  half  naked, 
exhibiting  their  oddly  white  teeth  with  the  gesticulations  of 
orang  outangs,  and  brandishing  with  wild  frenzy,  above  their 
yellow  caps,  the  flashing,  broad  blades  of  their  machetes. 
The  first  row  of  them  is  advancing  now,  and  is  launching  itself 
upon  the  battalion.  Silently  the  machetes  do  their  bloody 
work,  circle  about  the  skulls  of  their  foe,  about  their  necks, — 
fearful  slashes;  in  a  flashing  and  scintillating  figure  the  for- 
midable weapons  inflict  deadly  wounds,  twist  and  turn,  search- 
ing out  without  rest  or  favor  the  unguarded  spot  in  the  other 
men's  armor,  furiously  glittering  in  their  fiendish  bloody  task, 
points  always  bare,  reddened  with  the  life  fluid  of  their  vic- 
tims. But  always  the  machete  encounters  the  vigilant  bayonet, 
steel  against  steel,  the  point  of  the  bayonet  penetrating  the 
other's  guard,  and  vainly  they  attack,  tire  out  the  destructive 
attack  of  the  machete,  until  at  last  the  Grenadiers,  like  so  many 
streaks  of  lightning,  pierce  the  close  ranks  of  the  macheteros, 
nail  them  with  the  sharp  points  of  their  broad  weapon  red- 
dened to  the  hilt. 

"  Now  for  the  guns!  "  comes  the  voice  of  Borrero  shrilly. 

A  flash,  a  thunderous  noise,  a  thick  smoke  cloud.  Amongst 
the  cohorts  of  negroes  there  are  now  openings,  but  these  close 
up  again  speedily.  The  battle  is  becoming  a  general  scuffle, 
a  fierce  struggle  man  to  man,  an  infernal  spectacle  in  which 
the  cannons  themselves,  a  hundred  times  taken  and  a  hundred 
times  recovered,  are  surrounded  by  rows  of  dead  and  wounded. 
The  whole  scene,  in  fact,  is  now  a  strange  medley  of  noises, 


PAX  473 

made  up  of  the  reports  of  shots,  the  clatter  of  steel  upon  steel, 
the  creaking  of  axle-trees,  the  clinking  of  chains  and  harness, 
the  ring  of  bronze,  the  scuffle  of  men  on  the  ground  locked  in 
each  other's  arms  intent  upon  murder,  the  tottering  of  wounded, 
and  all  enclosed  in  an  atmosphere  reeking  with  sweat  and 
blood,  with  frightful  blasphemies  and  curses,  while  the  fighters 
themselves  battle  with  fire  and  steel,  shoot  and  kill  at  but  a 
distance  of  inches,  are  drawn  into  single  combats,  mingle  their 
plaints  and  their  breaths,  bite,  scratch,  strangle  each  other. 

The  failure  of  the  cannon,  the  temporary  retreat  of  the 
Grenadiers,  the  personal  presence  of  Cardoso,  at  the  head  of 
the  macheteros,  his  valorous  charge,  aroused  a  blind  enthusiasm 
within  the  army  of  the  revolutionists ;  this  spread  to  the  trenches, 
and  led  there  to  a  wild  fight.  A  panic  seized  the  ranks  of  the 
Government  troops. 

Defeat,  at  this  critical  moment  of  the  gigantic  duel,  spread 
through  the  heated,  vibrant  air  hovered  with  its  back  wings 
first  above  one  and  then  the  other  army,  scenting  its  prey  and 
ready  to  fall  upon  the  victim  with  a  bound,  with  a  swift 
sweep,  like  a  flash. 

Tormented  by  restlessness,  Roberto,  from  his  camp,  heard  the 
increasing  thunder  of  battle,  the  sinister  bellowing  which  in  the 
clear  air  was  more  and  more  distinctly  audible  from  far  away,  in 
these  wilderness  spaces  of  Aguila.  The  reserve  was  waiting 
from  minute  to  minute,  arms  ready  for  marching,  when  some 
panic-stricken  soldiers  arrived  from  the  battlefield  itself. 

"  They  have  defeated  the  Grenadiers,  and  are  taking  our 
artillery."  Such  was  their  report. 

Casanova,  with  a  kind  of  speechless  wrath,  halted  in  front 
of  Roberto.  They  gazed  at  each  other  without  saying  a  word. 
Roberto  made  an  affirmative  sign.  Then  was  heard  the  signal 
for  marching.  The  battalions  left  speedily,  saluting  the  com- 
ing combat  with  acclamation. 

"  It  is  the  decisive  battle,"  said  Roberto  to  Casanova,  with 
whom  he  was  galloping  at  the  head  of  the  troops.  "  Do  you 
hear  the  signal  to  charge  along  the  whole  line?  Ronderos  was 
thinking  of  leaving  us  behind  here,  thus  preserving  a  safe  line 
of  retreat  in  case  of  defeat,  but  this  attack  now  has  come  un- 
expectedly, which  means  that  it  should  have  been  expected. 


474  PAX 

We  are  coming  now  without  orders.  .  .  .  We  must  win  .  .  . 
else  our  act  is  inexcusable.  .  .  .  Victory  or  death  ...  do  not 
forget  that!  ..." 

Roberto  was  as  pale  as  death.  His  eyes  showed  deep  hol- 
lows, and  he  had  an  acute  pain  in  his  chest.  His  voice  sounded 
broken  and  was  lost  in  an  attack  of  weariness. 

"Colonel,  what  ails  you?" 

"  Nothing,  nothing.  This  will  pass  away,"  he  continued,  bit- 
ing his  lips  with  anguish,  and  raising  one  of  his  hands  to  his 
chest.  "  This  will  go  away.  We  must  make  the  final  charge 
upon  them,  Casanova.  .  .  .  All  the  divisions  at  once  .  .  .  one 
single  sweep  without  halting  .  .  .  profiting  from  the  impetus. 
.  .  .  The  Palmares  Division  must  be  in  the  center.  .  .  ." 

Casanova  saw  with  affright  that  Robert  grasped  the  mane 
of  his  horse  with  trembling  fingers,  that  he  allowed  his  head  to 
droop,  that  he  was  barely  able  to  keep  in  the  saddle,  and  that 
he  was  that  instant  fainting,  his  arms  hanging  down  inert. 

He  sprang  forward,  succeeded  in  seizing  the  horse,  and 
managed  to  receive  Roberto  in  his  one  arm  before  the  latter 
glided  unconscious  to  the  ground. 

Roberto  did  not  recover  his  senses  for  some  time,  then  opened 
his  eyes  and  made  an  attempt  to  rise. 

Clearly  and  distinctly  the  roar  of  battle  reached  them  now, 
more  and  more  vividly,  more  and  more  inciting.  It  was  a 
vast  sound  composed  of  a  thousand  individual  sounds:  the 
sound  of  brass,  the  sound  of  man  in  its  most  exciting  note, 
in  the  manifestation  of  the  martial  spirit. 

Roberto's  own  men  came  on  like  a  joyous  hurricane,  drunk 
with  enthusiasm,  fascinated  by  the  shouts  of  combat,  electri- 
fied by  the  prospect  of  victory. 

With  a  supreme  effort  Roberto  succeeded  in  mounting  his 
horse  again,  as  he  intended  to  put  himself  at  the  head  of  his 
brave  men,  who  were  wild  to  go  to  the  assistance  of  their  old 
general  and  offer  him  their  lives  at  the  moment  of  supreme 
danger.  But  he  was  unable  to  do  so.  Prostrated  by  acute  pain 
he  once  more  fell,  fainting.  He  opened  his  eyes,  saw  Casanova, 
who  remained  at  his  side,  saw  in  him  the  despair  of  inaction, 
the  irresistible  longing  to  join  in  the  fight,  the  mad  desire  to 
head  the  charge,  to  jump  into  the  trenches,  to  defeat  the  enemy, 
to  scatter  his  strength,  destroy  him;  in  short,  to  conquer. 


PAX  475 

"  Leave  me  here,"  Roberto  whispered,  "  aside  here,  this  will 
pass  quickly.  ...  I  shall  follow  you.  .  .  .  Make  haste,  haste 
.  .  .  over  there!  " 

He  pointed  with  his  hand  towards  where  the  combat  was 
raging.  He  was  even  able  to  force  himself  to  make  a  gesture  of 
farewell  to  Casanova,  who  at  once  rushed  off,  and  then  Roberto 
fell  back  in  another  spell.  He  half  awoke,  and  heard  the 
dull  noise  of  the  marching  troops,  the  hoofbeats  of  the  horses, 
the  ring  of  steel. 

Then  Casanova,  it  seemed  to  him,  returned,  with  gestures 
of  great  anxiety.  "Good  God,"  he  said,  "defeated?"  .  .  . 
"  I  have  returned  in  flight,"  he  thought  he  heard  Casanova 
mutter,  "  at  the  head  of  the  last  remaining  columns.  My  horse 
turned  at  the  front,  took  the  bit  between  his  teeth,  while  I  was 
signaling  to  the  enemy  with  my  sword,  motioning  desperately 
with  the  stump  of  my  arm,  like  a  broken  wing,  in  a  convulsive 
movement." 

He  awoke  again  fully.  The  rumble  of  the  last  companies 
was  disappearing  in  the  distance. 

The  wind  coming  and  going  brought  the  thunder  of  battle 
closer  or  carried  it  off  far  away.  In  an  interval  of  silence 
Roberto  heard  on  the  road  the  song  of  sutler  women: 

(Death  is  sweet  if  it  comes 
Surprising  me  at  thy  side, 


Thy  hands  in  mine, 
Thv  lins  nn  mine. 


Thy  lips  on  mine. 

! 

But  oh !  how  sad  when  it  comes 
In  a  lonesome  nook, 
Without  thine  eyes  on  mine, 
Without  thy  lips  touching  mine.  / 

Ah!  The  folk  song  of  Ubaque,  Joy,  the  festival!  Do- 
lores! .  .  . 

He  felt  in  the  back  of  his  neck,  in  his  spine,  the  wet  and 
cold  ever  so  keenly.  A  penetrating,  implacable  cold.  Before 
his  eyes  the  sky  spread  out  clear  and  transparent,  with  the 
same  limpid  blue  which  it  wore  that  afternoon  at  Ubaque, 
.  .  .  and  that  other  afternoon  when,  with  his  mother  and 
Ines,  he  was  strolling  so  happy  through  the  meadows  at  El 
Sauzal. 


476  PAX 

The  battle  waxed  grimmer  and  grimmer,  became  more  and 
more  heated.  Roberto  divined  the  mysterious  current,  the 
heroic  impetus  which  inflamed  and  carried  the  two  armies  on- 
wards. He  felt  the  destroying  hurricane,  the  irresistible  im- 
pulse of  the  charge,  the  tumult  of  death,  the  prelude  to  the 
victory  on  his  side.  .  .  . 

Now  the  noises  were  diminishing  and  beginning  to  disap- 
pear in  the  distance,  the  noise  and  bustle  of  battle  .  .  .  and 
later  still,  the  icy  wind  of  twilight  brought  to  his  ears  the 
sounds  of  trumpets,  clear,  vivid,  and  proud,  which  proclaimed 
victory. 

The  clatter  of  approaching  horses  is  heard,  the  jingle  of 
bridles  and  arms  .  .  .  some  horsemen  are  passing  near  by. 
He  means  to  beg  their  assistance.  They  observe  him,  burst 
into  a  roisterous  guffaw,  and  with  brutal  voice  and  in  the  lan- 
guage of  drunkards  exclaim  before  riding  on  their  way : 

"  Hidden  in  the  straw  field,  have  you,  chief?  Are  you  sick 
or  merely  afraid?  " 

Afraid?  Yes,  he  began  to  think  himself  that  at  the  mo- 
ment of  entering  the  battle  he  had  been  prevented  by  a  sudden 
spell  of  cowardice, —  that  an  irresistible  panic  had  made  him 
sick,  that  he  had  deserted  his  post. 

Roberto  made  a  supreme  effort,  struggled,  succeeded  in  ris- 
ing, .  .  .  fell  again  heavily,  .  .  .  then  fatigue  overcame  him, 
his  breath  failed  him,  and  he  was  again  tortured  by  a  sharp 
pain  in  the  chest. 

Was  this  death,  then? 

Sometime  it  had  to  be.  But  not  here,  not  in  this  solitude, 
in  this  cold,  in  this  .  .  .  and  his  mother,  far  away,  abandoned, 
alone,  in  poverty  .  .  .  thinking  of  him,  awaiting  his  arrival 
day  and  night,  her  eyes  fixed,  glued  to  the  sketch  in  which 
Alejandro  had  represented  him  dead.  To  die?  Yes,  but  only 
after  embracing  her,  after  giving  her  a  last  kiss,  a  last  farewell 
embrace. 

•The  presentiment  of  death  took  hold  of  him.  He  saw  it 
coming  pitilessly,  like  a  sovereign,  domineeringly.  He  wished 
to  receive  death  with  his  whole  mind,  regard  it  face  to  face, 
not  as  somebody  who  hides  and  flees  from  it,  but  rather  as 
one  who  throws  himself  resolutely  into  his  arms,  who  fulfils  an 
irrevocable  decree,  resigns  his  own  will  to  the  will  of  God, 


PAX  477 

and  gives  his  life  back  to  God  as  he  would  give  back  his 
sword. 

He  was  able  to  put  his  hand  to  his  neck,  drew  out  the 
crucifix  which  his  mother  had  handed  him,  and  placed  it  with 
a  last  effort  to  his  lips. 

He  confessed  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  his  belief  in  Jesus 
Christ,  the  faith  held  by  his  ancestors,  in  which  the  Avilas  had 
lived  and  died  for  generations  and  generations.  He  repeated 
the  words  which  he  had  professed  in  the  morning  after  the 
communion : 

"  Soul  of  Christ,  sanctify  me!     Body  of  Christ,  save  me!  " 

Then  he  took  farewell  of  life,  and  bidding  a  last  adieu  to 
all  he  had  loved  on  earth,  awaited  death. 

Dizziness  overcame  him  once  more  .  .  .  was  it  already 
death?  ...  He  took  leave  a  second  time.  His  heart,  as 
though  it  wanted  to  break  his  chest,  was  hammering  away  with 
terrific  shocks,  increasing  its  palpitations  a  hundredfold. 

There  were  running  through  his  mind  scenes  and  landscapes 
filled  with  light  and  enchantment:  El  Consuelo,  the  infinite 
horizon,  the  plains  without  end.  .  .  .  Dolores  .  .  .  her  big 
black  eyes  .  .  .  the  house,  the  garden,  the  gushing  waters,  the 
shower  of  roses  that  was  falling  like  a  bridal  veil.  .  .  . 

Then  the  drawing  room  in  Empire  style  arranged  by  the 
delicate  hand  of  Ines,  the  comfort  there,  the  delicious  half-light, 
the  love  which  had  enwrapped  them,  filling  his  mother  with 
happiness. 

Life  invited  him,  was  smiling  at  him,  desired  to  keep  him 
here  .  .  .  but  the  shining  heaven  on  high  was  filling  every- 
thing below  with  mist  and  darkness,  and  in  the  thick  shadows 
those  cheerful  landscapes  of  a  moment  ago  went  to  pieces,  and 
with  them  those  charming  scenes,  life  itself.  .  .  .  The  earth 
was  becoming  mute  .  .  .  everything  was  sinking  into  a  silence 
of  eternity  ...  he  no  longer  felt  the  damp  of  the  soil,  nor 
the  cold  and  frost,  nor  did  he  perceive  any  longer  the  hammer 
beats  of  his  mad  heart  ...  it  was  going  now  more  and  more 
slowly,  until  it  would  stop  altogether.  H|s  existence  now  with- 
drew entirely  into  his  thought,  his  brain  J 

In  the  midst  of  the  impenetrable  obscurity  enfolding  him  now, 
two  shining  faces  were  calling  to  him:  his  father,  ...  his 
sister  Elisa  .  .  .  but  they  also  passed,  wiped  out  by  the  black 


478  PAX 

shadow.  All  was  now  dissolving,  submerged  in  this  darkness 
without  form  or  limits  into  which  he,  too,  was  swallowed  up,  in 
which  he  floated,  lightly,  without  weight,  drawn  more  and 
more  by  the  beckoning  distance.  There  remained  but  one  sin- 
gle face  now  .  .  .  the  face  bearing  the  seal  of  unaltering 
sadness,  with  a  crown  of  snow  white  hair.  .  .  . 

"Mother,  dear  little  mother,  farewell!"  The  pale  face 
came  closer,  caressingly  touched  his  own  cheek  with  hers, 
brushed  his  forehead  with  her  lips.  .  .  . 

The  light  of  dawn  tore  the  dark  mists  asunder:  "Jesus! 
Jesus!"  .  .  . 

Roberto  stirred,  stretched  out  stiffly;  the  last  rattle  died  in 
his  throat,  but  a  smile  illuminated  his  countenance.  .  .  . 

The  army  of  Ronderos  camped  for  the  night  in  the  tents  of 
the  enemy.  Pursuit  had  been  unchained  upon  those  who  were 
lions  in  the  morning  and  now  miserable  fugitives,  seized  with 
terror,  disseminated  and  dispersed,  hunted  without  respite, 
and  knifed  without  pity  in  the  woods  and  crags  of  the  wilder- 
ness. 

Night  fell  like  a  merciful  mantle  which  suspended  the  fright- 
ful killing  and  hid  the  horrors  of  the  combat.  But  in  a  short 
while  the  moon  lifted  this  veil  of  mercy  once  more,  and  solemn 
and  dolorous,  its  pale  silver  light  bathed  everything  in  melan- 
choly and  sorrow,  throwing  an  icy  gloom  upon  the  battlefield. 
This  field  which  in  the  morning  had  been  so  crowded  with  life 
and  movement,  with  vivid  noises  and  outbursts  of  vigor  and 
power,  was  now  a  field  of  mourning,  a  field  of  death,  where 
ruled  prostration  and  paralysis,  where  corpses  lay  piled  up 
high,  and  where  the  dying  were  trying  to  hide  their  agony 
within  the  pitiless  soil  that  itself  was  drenched  in  blood; 
where  in  the  most  tremendous  of  all  disharmonies  rose  a  sole 
clamor,  a  sole  cry;  interminable  moans,  piercing  howls,  roars 
of  fright,  voices  of  terror,  prayers  and  appeals: 

Vocem  terroris  audivimus,  formido  et  non  est  pax! 

Battlefield,  field  of  horror,  field  of  death  which  the  tire- 
less priest,  with  his  cassock  torn  to  pieces  and  stained  with 
blood,  is  ceaselessly  visiting.  He  halts,  he  kneels  down,  he 
hears  the  confession  of  the  dying,  rises  to  go  on,  continues  scat- 
tering the  balm  of  compassion  and  affection.  Up  on  the  sum- 


PAX  479 

mit  of  a  slope  he  stops,  scans  with  a  long  gaze  the  mass  of 
dead  and  wounded,  and  hearing  the  groans  of  agony  that  seem 
to  grow  ever  more  gigantic  in  the  stillness  of  night,  groans  which 
seem  to  form  one  colossal  voice  in  which  cries  of  pain,  cries  of 
fright,  invocations  and  fervent  prayers  are  mingled,  sighs: 

"  Give  us  peace,  oh,  Lord !  " 

He  now  follows  the  downward  path,  down  to  the  bottom  of 
the  ravine,  and  looks  up  the  rocks  and  the  gullies,  arriving 
at  the  next  height.  Here  he  gazes  all  about  him,  and  his  eyes 
take  in  a  larger  radius.  He  seems  to  see  the  territory  of  the 
entire  Republic  covered  with  skeletons,  and  seems  to  listen  to  a 
clamor  more  moving,  more  sorrowful,  than  even  the  clamor  of 
the  dying:  the  clamor  of  the  dead. 

The  terrific  vision  of  death  overwhelmed  Doctor  Miranda, 
haunted  him  with  implacable  persistence.  The  dead  were 
anonymous,  unknown  beings,  ignored,  friends,  just  and  un- 
just, repentant  and  unrepentant,  Chispas  .  .  .  Bellegarde.*.  .  . 
Sister  San  Ligorio  .  .  .  Socarraz  .  .  .  Socarraz  the  impenitent. 
...  A  new  anxiety  weighed  on  his  apostolic  heart.  He  was 
thinking  of  those  souls  who  had  become  perverted  in  the  course 
of  the  war,  who  persisted  on  their  false  path,  who  had  strayed 
away  from  God  for  all  eternity. 

But  was  this  reality?  Was  it  a  dream,  a  delirium?  To 
rest  his  tired  eyes  he  lifted  them  to  Heaven  and  there  saw  the 
moon  tottering,  a  pale,  bloodless  moon  which  seemed  to  stray 
about  like  the  corpse  of  a  heavenly  body,  unburied,  wandering  in 
immensity. 

He  turned  his  gaze  for  a  moment  toward  the  rear.  Another 
dead  body.  .  .  .  Whose  was  it?  Roberto's!  Stretched  out  on 
his  back,  cold  and  stiff.  One  of  the  hands  clenched  on  his 
bosom,  the  other  holding  the  crucifix  near  his  lips. 

He  took  him  in  his  arms,  called  him,  laid  the  rigid  body  on 
his  own  heart,  tried  to  bring  back  life,  tried  to  warm  the  cold 
lips,  the  cold  heart,  but  Roberto  remained  silent,  rigid,  one 
hand  on  his  breast,  the  other  on  the  crucifix. 

No,  it  was  impossible!  To  extinguish  so  much  youth,  so 
much  intellect,  so  much  nobility!  The  friend  of  his  child- 
hood, the  friend  of  his  soul.  And  hot  tears  began  to  scald  his 
eyes  and  to  flow  down  the  forehead  of  Roberto.  An  intense 
cold,  a  cold  like  from  the  grave,  as  though  between  his  arms 


480  PAX 

the  corpses  of  his  vision  were  multiplying  and  stretching  far 
and  wide  pierced  the  soul  of  the  good  priest.  He  joined  his  own 
sobs  with  the  sobs  of  the  mourning  hearths  everywhere,  with 
the  plaints  of  the  wounded,  with  the  cries  of  the  dying,  with 
the  mute  groan  of  the  dead: 

PEACE! 


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